


The Days between

by Rehlia



Series: These Days Series [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Art, Body Horror, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Child Murder, Dark, Drabbles, Existentialism, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internal Monologue, Medical Experimentation, More tags to be added, Multi, Murder, Near Death Experiences, Nihilism, Original Character Death(s), POV Multiple, Period-Typical Racism, Rampant Shipping, Sad, Smut, Soul Science, Spiders, Terrorism, Unethical Experimentation, Violence, Witch Trials, Worldbuilding, additional stuff for my main fic, burning at the stake, minors in bad situations, muffet's bakery, sans quotes nietzsche, these are our days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 80,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehlia/pseuds/Rehlia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Character POVs, drabbles, and background stories for my main fic 'These are our Days'. All this stuff is canon to the main story, but doesn't fit in there or doesn't follow the reader POV so it's published here instead.<br/>Most of this probably won't make much sense unless you've read that fic. Full of spoilers. Please mind the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As they climbed the Dark Mountain [Frisk]

**Author's Note:**

> Frisk climbs Mount Ebott and remembers some things. 
> 
> Warning, this came out even darker than I intended it to .__. I'm so sorry, Frisk.

Frisk’s feet hurt. They’d been walking for hours and the comfortable boots they had put on specifically for this trip didn’t help anymore and their feet hurt. And their legs too. And - (their chest. Their heart. _Grandma_.) - and they’re tired.

The mountain looms above them.

It’s not far anymore, it doesn’t look far anymore, but it hadn’t looked far an hour ago (they think it was an hour, they don’t know, they don’t have their cell phone or their clock) and it hadn’t looked that far when they had started to walk either. But it was. They really hope it won’t be much longer now that they’ve reached the foot of it. 

They stop and tip their head back. The mountaintop is just barely visible against the orange sky, through the treetops. Frisk nods and fixes their eyes back on the ground, pushing forwards. 

Frisk will climb Mount Ebott.

(And then?)

Frisk will reach the top of Mount Ebott.

(And then?)

And then Frisk will _rest_.

They will climb up to that peak and sit on top of the mountain and look down at the world. It’s gonna be all tiny below them, they’ll be able to see the city from there probably, and the people will all look like ants. It will be quiet and peaceful. They’ll watch the clouds and the sunset. And maybe then the pain will go away. 

(And then? They don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. They _will_ reach the mountain top.)

Frisk walks on, weaving through pines and the sparse underbrush of the forest. Their jeans keep getting snagged on twigs and other plants, leaving greenish-brown stains on them. It doesn’t matter. (It’s their favourite pair.) Nothing matters. They draw their shoulders up and pull the turtleneck of their striped sweater higher up their chin. They’re warm from moving, but where the chill March air hits their skin, it’s still cold. 

(“Wear something warm when you go outside!” Grandma had always scolded them, pushing thick, self-knitted scarves and plush jackets onto them. “You’ll catch death outside like that!” She had always said that, over and over, and Frisk had sometimes listened and sometimes not. They hadn’t when they’d slipped away to look for their mom. They’d worn a different outfit than they’re wearing now, warm tights and shorts with suspenders, a crisp shirt with cufflinks and a cute pink bow for a tie, with a thick wooly cardigan thrown on top. Christmas gifts. They’d loved getting both cufflinks and the pink bow, it meant so much.

Just the right things for so important a visit. 

Frisk had smiled the entire way on the bus and kept smiling as they walked down the street with the letter clutched in their hand, the address written on the envelope. They’d memorised the directions, they were good at memorising directions, so now all they had to do was find the right house. 

The houses all looked so nice and big here. Frisk wondered why. Grandma had said that their mom was working for them, to pay for the apartment and the food and the clothes and so Frisk could be home-schooled, because grandma was already old and sometimes her legs hurt real bad, and so she couldn’t work anymore and their mom had to do it. But why couldn’t Frisk and Grandma live here too, if the houses were so nice and big? The apartment they lived in was nice too, of course, but not nice like that, with pretty decorations all over and everything so clean, and it was smaller too. Maybe their mom had recently gotten a better job, and now she had the house and was making it so Frisk and Grandma could move in?

They checked the address on the envelope again, suddenly nervous if they really, really got it right. But no, they were on the right street. They looked at the number of the house closest to them and their heart started pounding. Three more houses. They were almost there! 

Frisk suddenly had to stop under the empty branches of a bush, reaching over the fence of the house next to them and making shadows on the sidewalk. They’d never seen their mom before, they’d seen some really old pictures Grandma had in a smelly old album, but those were almost as old as Frisk was and besides, pictures weren’t the same as seeing her for _real_. She’d looked pretty on the pictures. Would she look different now?

The clack of a door opening in front of them alerted them, making them flinch and lift their head and their eyes focus. Steps on a gravel path, somebody laughed. The gate to the garden of _her_ house opened and -

She looked like them. Frisk felt the smile on their face, growing and growing, she _looked like them_. Like on the pictures but better because this was real. She was so pretty. Frisk’s mom was real and alive and she was so pretty. She’d half turned back towards the house, stretching her arm and hand back towards it, still laughing about something. 

A small, blonde little girl followed her out of the gate, hair pulled into two cute little pigtails on the side of her head, and clutched her hand. 

Frisk stared at the girl, stared and stared and stared because she looked like their mom too. But not like Frisk. Not like Frisk. 

Their mom talked to the little girl and they beamed at each other and walked towards a car, and Frisk’s mom opened the door of the car and lifted the little girl up and kissed her on her face, all over until the girl giggled. Then she put the girl into the car and was busy there for a while, probably helping her buckle the seatbelt. A man walked out of the house and loaded bags into the trunk of the car before he got into the driver’s seat, saying something that made more laughter come from where their mom was bent over in the car. Frisk’s mom closed the back door and got into the front seat. They drove away.

Frisk still stood in the shadows of the bush, clutching the letter. They’d stopped smiling. Their mouth was open. They wished they hadn’t come here. They wished they didn’t understand. 

Why?

Why?

Why why why why why why _why why why why why why_ \- )

It’s cold. Maybe they should have worn the cardigan. Or another warm jacket. They hadn’t been able to explain to Grandma why they didn’t want to wear those clothes anymore for a while. It had made her sad, and that had made Frisk feel bad so they wore them again. It hurt but seeing Grandma sad hurt more. 

They look up at the sky again. There’s less orange now and more blue and purple. The sun is setting. So they won’t be able to watch it from the mountaintop after all, that’s a shame. Here in the forest the shadows are already dark and creepy. But they’re not on the top yet. They have to go on. 

Frisk isn’t scared. 

They used to be, when they were younger, but there had never been anything bad in the dark, it was always just a coat hanging at a door or socks piled up funny on the floor or a toy they’d forgotten to put away. Or sometimes it had been Grandma when she’d had to go pee at night. So eventually, Frisk had told themselves that being scared of the dark was silly and they’d stayed up an entire night to prove that they could look into the dark and not feel frightened. They’d gotten tired of it fast, because it turns out staying up in the dark means you can’t really do anything, because turning on the light to read would wake grandma and playing would make noises that would also wake Grandma and then Grandma would scold them. So they just sat and felt bored. But they wanted to make it and they did. 

Because when Frisk wanted to do something, they always, always succeeded. 

Grandma said Frisk was stubborn, but Frisk knows that it’s because they’re strong. They don’t ever give up and they don’t ever believe it when someone tells them they can’t do something. Somehow, giving up just feels wrong in a way they can’t explain. It’s just not them. And of course they can do anything, because when you never give up and you always try hard, try every possible solution and every impossible one too, you’ll eventually find a way to do something. They know that. They don’t know how they know it, but it’s true, they can feel it, deep inside of them. 

So Frisk made it through that dark night. And they weren’t scared. 

Which means they have no reason to be scared now, so they’re not. 

They’re _not_. 

It’s just a stupid dark forest with stupid dark trees and stupid empty branches that look like claws. The branches aren’t claws. That’s a stupid thing to think. And it’s also stupid to think that that tree looks weird, that it has a weird shape like a face in its bark. It’s not a face. There aren’t any lines there that look like wrinkles, a face that’s not a face anymore - 

(“Grandma?” Frisk asked quietly, hovering in the door to her room. It was late in the morning, and she hadn’t gotten up yet. That didn’t happen often. And if it did, it was never this late. 

Grandma still lay in her bed, a lump under the fluffy blanket which was drawn up halfway over her face like always. She liked to snuggle in. Frisk liked that too. The room was dark, the curtains still drawn, only a little bit of light getting past them. It was cool in the room, Grandma didn’t like putting the heating too high when she slept. Something smelled bad, sharp and bitter and foul. That was weird.

“Grandma, it’s past ten!” 

She did not move. 

“Grandma?” 

Frisk hit the light switch and waited, but still nothing. They took a step into the room and stopped, what smelled so bad? It was coming from the bed. Was Grandma sick? Suddenly they felt worried. They couldn’t remember Grandma ever being sick like this before, even if her legs hurt sometimes. It had always been them who’d gotten a cold here and a light fever there, or who sometimes caught a stomach bug and had to throw up. Maybe they should call the doctor? But Grandma hadn’t done that, had she? She’d always asked Frisk what was wrong and then she’d made them tea and rubbed sticky medicine on their chest and put wet towels around their legs to cool them down or when they were throwing up, she let them and then gave them broth and water and bananas and toast and told them to drink a lot. Frisk didn’t know what to do. They decided to wake her and ask which of those was right. 

They walked to the bed and pulled the blanket down, and Grandma’s face was stiff and purple and her skin tight, lips white and eyes sunk. It didn’t look much like her anymore.

Frisk screamed and stumbled away, the stench of urine and feces hitting them square in the face. They gagged and ran from the room, throwing the door shut behind them. 

It wasn’t enough. 

They dragged themselves to their room and hid under the blanket, shaking and crying into their arms. What was that? Why did Grandma look like that? Frisk hadn’t looked like that when they had been sick. And the smell - Once, Frisk was ashamed to think it, but once when they had a stomach bug, they couldn’t get to the toilet fast enough, and then there had been an accident. It was embarrassing. Was that what had happened to Grandma? But why was she all purple and stiff? 

Frisk suddenly felt cold. 

What if she wasn’t just sick?

What if - 

No. _No_. 

Frisk carefully lifted their blanket and stared at their door. It couldn’t be. Not Grandma. Not like this. It just couldn’t be. But what if? They had to check. They didn’t want to but they had to check. It was Grandma. If she was very sick they’d have to call the doctor and tell them what Grandma looked like so she could get the right medicine. And if she wasn’t just sick… 

It was the scariest thing they’d ever done.

More scary now than before because now they knew what was coming.

The way to Grandma’s room felt like nothing else, it was worse than when they had gone to their mom’s house and seen the other child. Frisk felt sick. They didn’t want to go but they had to. 

Frisk carefully opened the door and peeked back inside the room. The smell almost made them gag again, so they held their arm in front of their face and breathed into the crook of it. The smell of the fabric of their striped turtleneck sweater helped a little bit. They inched closer to the bed and braced themselves for the view, but it was still terrible. 

They carefully extended a finger and poked Grandma on the cheek. 

She felt cold and hard. She didn’t breathe.

Frisk had never owned a pet and had never seen death for real, but they knew what this meant. They began to cry again, heaving sobs into the crook of their arm, into the fabric of the sweater, still trying to protect themselves from the bad smell. They hadn’t known that people would go all purple when they died or that they would have white lips or that they would poop and pee themselves. Dead people on television didn’t look like that. They were always pale and stiff, but clean, maybe with blood over them if it was a murder story. Grandma hadn’t liked it when they watched those and always switched channels. Frisk thought that now, Grandma looked really bad. They hoped she didn’t suffer when she died. What if she did and that was why she looked like this? But even the murdered people on television hadn’t looked like this. Had they just been made to look prettier? 

They moved their fingers to Grandmas hair, which was the only thing about her that still looked the same. It still felt the same, too. They carefully petted it.

Frisk didn’t know what to do now. 

If somebody was sick, then you either gave them medicine or called a doctor. But who did they have to call for someone who died? Emergency? That was the only number they could think of. But what would they say? 

Grandma was dead. 

They didn’t want to say that. They wanted for Grandma to not be purple and white and stiff, smelling bad. Grandma shouldn’t be dead. She should wake up and be normal and make breakfast like she did on normal mornings.

Frisk was still crying, petting Grandma’s hair. 

Where would they go now? They hadn’t told Grandma about the day where they took the letter and went to their mom’s house. She hadn’t ever told them where they should go if something happened to her. Would they have to go back to their mom? They didn’t want that. Their mom was… She’d went and had another kid - a cute little girl wearing dresses, not like Frisk who didn’t want to be anything and who wore things that people on the street sometimes said were strange. She’d never even come and seen Frisk and yet she went and had another kid and a man and she was happy. 

So where would Frisk go?

In the fairy tales, the children always went into a forest or to a mountain when their parents didn’t want them. And then they’d find gold or someone else to be their family or both. Frisk didn’t really believe in things like that, they were just fairy tales after all. But still, that would be better than having to go to the mom who decided to have a better kid instead of them, wouldn’t it? 

And there was a mountain, with a forest… Mount Ebott. They could see it out of the window, or they would be able to if the curtains weren’t drawn. Grandma had told them that it was really pretty there, but that people weren’t allowed to go there if they didn’t have experience with hiking and stuff, and that even those people had to stay on the paths. There had been accidents there in the past because people would go anyway and get hurt, but then a ski resort had opened on a different mountain that was just a short drive away, and so fewer people went. 

That probably meant that there was nobody there, right?

So if Frisk went there… nobody would find them. Nobody would take them back to their mom. It wasn’t a fairy tale, but still better than reality.

“I’m going to Mount Ebott,” they said quietly through the lump in their throat. “I love you, Grandma.”

Grandma was stiff, and purple, and dead. 

Frisk left her room and didn’t look back.)

No, on further reflection, the bark doesn’t look like Grandma’s face at all, not even when she was dead. 

Frisk angrily wipes their eyes, blinking the other tears away that gather there. They’ve already cried. Grandma is dead. She won’t come back from crying, but crying will make it harder to see now that it’s dark so they can’t cry. 

It’s really difficult to see anyway. They thought they’d get here faster when they started and that it would still be light out. They’d thought they could watch the sunset from the mountaintop. But now they can’t even see the path anymore. Are they even still on it? They don’t know. For a moment they feel insecure, but then they square their shoulders and the feeling is gone. They said they’d get to the top so they will. Who needs a path anyway, that’s probably just to scare little kids away. (Like them. They’re a little kid. They’re scared, it’s cold, Grandma is _dead_ , they want to stop, they can’t stop.)

It’s getting harder and harder to walk. Not just because it’s dark, but the ground is also steep. They’re more climbing than walking by now and there’s rocks jutting out of the ground everywhere. 

Overhead, they can see the stars coming out one by one. 

Frisk blinks in surprise, there’s a lot more stars to see here than they’ve ever seen before. 

Back at the apartment they’d sometimes watch the stars with Grandma, but they’d only ever seen the brightest ones. Finding all the constellations was hard like that. 

But this, this looks like in the books, or on television, there are thousands of stars, more coming out every minute. It’s so beautiful that they forget everything else for a moment, mouth hanging open in wonder, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground. 

That’s the last thing they do, stumbling. 

Their feet catch in something, they don’t know what and then they’re falling forwards, bracing themselves with outstretched hands to meet the hard forest floor, but it never comes. 

They fall into darkness, a deeper darkness than the darkness of the forest and they feel weightless and don’t know where up and down is, and they think they can maybe see the beautiful stars spinning past somewhere in the corners of their eyes but they can’t really make it out and the wind is whistling in their ears and there’s a weird pressure for a moment and their arms and legs are flailing - 

The smell of something sweet - 

Pain. 

So much pain.

Darkness.


	2. Lost in the Spidermarket [Dolores]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dolores' quest for coffee finally bears fruit.
> 
> Just a short, harmless drabble. Beware of spiders though.

The plaza is a lot more lively now that some shops are open. 

Granted, many monsters still seem to wrestle with their agoraphobia, so it’s not as many as Dolores would think, and the ones who are out keep glancing upwards every few seconds. But still. It’s a noticeable difference.

The sign above the shop she stands in front of says “Muffet’s Parlour” in loopy, elaborately cursive writing. The shop windows show a variety of baked goods on chequered tablecloths, and even more hanging in delicate, silvery spiderwebs that crisscross above the presentation tables in one of the most elaborate displays Dolores has ever seen. The door of the shop has been painted purple and decorated with more spiderwebs, the doorknob exchanged for an old-fashioned, victorian-looking one. Basically everything about the place screams whimsical. Not in a bad way, necessarily.

It’s themed entirely in purple, silver and black and reminds Dolores of some people she used to hang out with in middle school, who wore far too much pale make up to their ruffled dresses and black ripped jeans. They had never been able to convince her to let them try that make up on her, for which she continues to retroactively thank her past self. It would not have suited her, and her teenage years were embarrassingly awkward enough already. 

Dolores takes one last look at the spiderwebs and then turns the doorknob, entering the heavy, encompassing warmth of the bakery to the sound of a little bell. 

There is movement everywhere when she enters, an explosion of scuttling, black little bodies on the walls, on the ceilings, in the display cases, on the register, on the baked goods. Not all of the baked goods, but most of them, deliberately so. This, combined with the turns and stares she gets from some of the little creatures, tells her that these are no ordinary spiders. After the initial rush of movement dies down, some vanish through a door into the back of the shop, while others continue with their work. Donuts and eclairs are carefully arranged, decorations straightened, one cluster of spiders appears to be checking a book with a lot of numbers written inside, before yet another spider comes with a pen to write something down. More spiders carry a fresh batch of croissants through the door to a display case, scuttling over them to begin with their arrangement. 

Dolores wonders what a health and hygiene inspector would say to this. Probably nothing good, which considering that monsters are monsters and not animals could lead to some really interesting proceedings about hate speech. Monsters could probably use some legal precedent there, not that she wishes an incident upon them to incite it. But she knows it will come. Eventually. Everything ends up in court sooner or later, given enough time. 

“Ahuhuhuhu…” she hears from somewhere above her. 

Looking upwards Dolores finds herself face to face with five bulgy, shiny black eyes; oblong slitted ovals with long, thick lashes, arranged in a semi-circle on lavender chitin, two larger and three smaller. They blink out of synch. The little mouth that sits underneath them reveals two thin, sharp fangs when it grins. 

“My little spiders told me there’s a human in my parlour~” The monster says, giggling into one of her many hands. She has six of them, four are occupied with a different item each, a spatula, a teacup, a matching teapot, a whisk. How convenient. “You don’t think your taste is too refined for our pastries, deary?”

“Of course not,” Dolores says automatically. 

“Even with the spiders?” The monster asks, her little grin widening and coming just a little bit closer to Dolores’ face, lowering herself from a thread of spider silk from the ceiling. She’s maybe a little bit cute, for a spider lady.

“I like spiders,” Dolores says, feeling the uncomfortable little spark of intuition in the back of her brain telling her that that’s not quite true, but that it’s not quite wrong either, the one that she’s never been able to figure out or explain or even put into words. She ignores it as she always has. 

“Ahuhuhuhu~ What a nice thing to say!” The monster pulls back from Dolores’ face and lowers herself fully to the ground, daintily setting her feet down before she severs the spider silk thread she hung on before. “My name is Muffet,” she says. “And this is my bakery.”

Like little miss Muffet? Dolores wonder quietly.

“What would you like to order?” Muffet asks.

“Do you have coffee?” Dolores asks, voicing the hope that drove her in here in the first place. Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.

“Of course, deary~ Have you seen our menu yet?”

A cluster of spiders lower themselves from the ceiling, bringing a folded piece of heavy, high quality paper with them. The menu is printed in cursive too, white and black on lavender and purple, albeit in a font that is easier to read than the one on the front sign. It's mostly pastries and other baked goods, but Muffet also offers coffee and teas with options of sugar and cream and different syrups for taste, as well as a selection of ciders. Little spider symbols are printed next to some of the options.

‘Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders’, the explanation next to the symbol on the bottom states. Of spiders? 

“Are there real spiders in the options marked here?” Dolores asks.

“Of course~ Only the best ingredients for the spider bakery.”

Dolores glances at the many spiders surrounding her and Muffet. “And they are okay with it?”

“Ahuhuhu~ What are you implying, deary?”

Sweenie Todd levels of wrongness, Dolores thinks.

“I mean what I said. Are the spiders okay with being used for cider and baked goods?”

“They are already old and fallen when that, don't worry” Muffet tells her, this time without any additional giggling. “It's what spiders do. Traditional.” The spiders on the floor, the ceiling and the walls titter in agreement. 

“I see.” Apparently spiders just happen to be into ritualistic cannibalism for their death rites. 

“When we die and our bodies turn to dust, we don't want to be spread over inanimate objects, no matter how much we loved them in life. We never love anything more than family, friends, the people we meet. That is where we wish to stay, and so that is where our dust goes. Into something alive, so a part of us can stay alive as well.”

Okay, that does make more sense, in a way. Although the selling of it is still strange. Dust, huh? Well, at least she wouldn't find full spider legs in her donut. Would she have minded spider legs in her donut? Probably not, actually. Insects didn’t taste so bad, a bit nutty. Mild. So how much worse could spiders be? The dust, however, she has no comparison for. Dolores wonders what you would do with that information, if you had already learned about monster deaths. Maybe Sans had told you. You seemed to be getting a lot of info from him, when the two of you actually managed to stop throwing puns at each other for more than five minutes at a time. Happened rarely enough, that.

“So, what exactly would you like to order, deary?”

Dolores thinks for a moment. Is she okay with eating the dust of deceased spiders? Deceased, sapient monster spiders at that? The sapience is probably what she should focus on here. She supposes most people would say no to that, but she finds she doesn't actually mind that much. She eats other things - pigs are supposedly quite clever, for example. Maybe not sapient, but still. And she does enjoy pork. So no, she doesn't mind the spiders. They're dust anyway. She wonders what it’ll taste like more than anything else. Will the donut be more sugary as a result? Or will it temper the sweetness? It’s probably highly morbid to wonder what the dust would taste like unprocessed, but then Dolores already knows she is a morbid person. 

“I'll have a coffee… actually, make that two coffees.” Dolores doesn't know if you like coffee, but not offering you one and drinking and eating in front of you would make her come across like a bitch, probably. She thinks you might appreciate the gesture in any case, you seem very intent on being polite and friendly. More than she is in any case. Not that that’s hard. “And a dozen spider donuts please.”

To Dolores’ delight and fascination, Muffet begins to make the coffee by hand. She grinds the beans with a mortar and pestle, heats bottled water on an old-fashioned stove, and starts brewing with a french press. Hand made coffee, and with so much care, too. Now that’s a treat she hasn’t had in awhile. Yum. She mostly just pops into Starbucks whenever she needs a shot of caffeine - they have all the good unhealthy syrups - even though she likes the fancy stuff too. This’ll be nice, after so long without. Especially with the donuts.

The rest of the household hadn’t been interested in coffee, but very adamant about buying food at a bar called Grillby’s, which Sans insisted was hot stuff, which told Dolores he was making a pun she didn’t get, and Toriel was very insistent that Frisk not have sweets in addition to the unhealthy fast food. But maybe someone else will want some donuts later. Alphys, definitely, maybe Sans, potentially Asgore for his tea, if he would drink one. She doesn’t know about Undyne. Papyrus, probably not. And if they all don't, Dolores has found a good food buddy in Alphys. They can eat the donuts while working if too many are left. 

God, Dolores has missed unhealthy food. Toriel’s cooking is awesome, no doubt, but after having lived by herself for years with nothing but takeout and pbj’s thanks to the fact that she couldn’t cook to save her life, she’s just too used to the taste, all the sugar and fat and salt and grease. Sharing snacks and cup ramen with Alphys was nice, but takeout… takeout was always preferable. 

In front of her, Muffet has efficiently packed her twelve donuts into a paper bag with two hands, while using two more to pour the coffees, a fifth to write something down in the little booklet and the last one to ring her up on the register. 

Dolores watches all this and is intensely jealous of Muffet’s six hands. The amount of work she gets done with them! Staggering. Would be great for her paperwork. Not to mention she can imagine a couple of other things where having six hands would come in quite handy. She grins, and then pulls a face. Oh god, you and Sans are rubbing off on her. Nope. Not happening. Six hands are… convenient. That. 

“That will be 104G, please~"

“Oh, right…” Dolores digs in her pocket for the gold coins she has received from Asgore as part of her pocket money - the exchange rate between monster and human currency was still wonky as fuck with the huge disparity in how gold was valued by humans versus monsters, so it was easier to just pay that half and half. It was pretty awesome to carry around gold like that, at first, but by now she mainly just finds it cumbersome. Stark reminder of why humanity switched to paper or shit like that for the most part. Gold coins are heavy and difficult to carry. 

She counts the appropriate amount onto the counter and takes her paper bag. 

“Thank you for your purchase! See you again, dearie~"

“Oh, before I forget. Could I take a menu with me?”

“Of course!”

Dolores leaves the spider bakery perusing the menu the spiders have handed her, absentmindedly reminding herself to pick up the package she was told arrived for her. 

Spider macarons.

If the donuts are good, maybe she’ll try those next.


	3. Some kind of Skeleton Nature [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sans gets philosophical during movie night.
> 
> My tumblr: http://trashcandisaster.tumblr.com/

Sans likes watching ‘The Martian’. It’s scientific, it’s funny, it’s a testament to not only your taste in movies, but also to your ability to recommend said movies with the personal facts and proclivities of the person you’re recommending to in mind, which is absolutely in line with your general personality but still something he can appreciate. What he likes even more is watching your face scrunch up every time he nudges you to ask a question about the movie when you keep nodding off with your head falling forwards. Not that that’s the reason he’s doing it. Not the entire reason, at least.

He thinks that you’d maybe not appreciate falling asleep in this position and ending up drooling on your jeans, so he’s not _just_ doing that to be an ass.

He’s already fulfilled his daily quota of being-an-ass-ness by bringing up your application and delighting in the reactions that had produced, but stars, how could he not? That thing was the crowning shitpost of employment communication lovingly rendered in a medium of alcoholic beverages and electronic messaging. Lovely. When he first read it he had laughed for a solid fifteen minutes and he should have known right then and there that he would get along with you, so his continued entertainment at and appreciation of your personal characteristics shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet they do.

The thing is-

The thing is that he actually _likes_ you, maybe, a little bit, enough to want to be your friend. Which is weird. Which doesn’t jive with the whole thing he’s had in mind about not liking humans as a matter of principle because hey, being trapped in a time loop by a ten year old with apparent identity issues that resolve themselves through repeated multiple homicide both by actual physical killing and on a metaphysical level by erasing the timelines in which the physical killing happened and the people within it who would otherwise have been survivors tends to do that to you. 

Not that he’s salty or anything.

In any case, friendships with humans shouldn’t have been on the menu. But now they are.

Sans recognizes that it’s probably not entirely fair to you or your entire species to base his judgement of the latter entirely on the disaster that was a ten year old kid with time warping powers, but it’s not as if he can just force his cognitive process to override his instinctual response. 

Like, he’s good at this friendship thing, right? He’s got baller friendship capabilities, impressive, grade A, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious friendship capabilities; he’s friends with his brother, he’s friends with his barkeeper, he’s friends with the entire rest of the bar, he’s friends with his colleagues at MTT’s, fuck, he’s managed to befriend a disembodied voice behind a door while practising knock knock jokes who turned out to be the missing Queen of monsterkind and he’s sure that has to count for something. 

But friendship with a human?

It feels like an unnecessary order of magnitude.

With Toriel, sure, finding out who she was had been in equal parts exciting, intimidating, and not important at all because even when she resumed her former position she was still just the same, his pun pal. And she would stay his pun pal. 

Because - 

Because. 

Because the crux of the matter is after all not his artificially established hatred of humanity but the fact that if, theoretically speaking, _if_ there was another reset - 

Toriel would be behind the door as she had always been. You, however, would be gone. And who’s to say you’d be in Ebott when, if, they got up here again? 

Sans likes being up here, likes the sky, likes the wind, likes the stars even if he hasn’t seen much of them yet, likes maybe even the idea of being pals with a few humans, like you for example, but he doesn’t _trust_ it. He can’t. He couldn’t do it down there and he can’t do it up here, because there’s always the non-zero possibility of a reset, because statistically speaking of course that possibility isn’t zero. 

Statistically speaking, there are no statistics, because there is only one case to base them on, and that’s not a proper way to do statistics. He’s a scientist. He has standards.

They are out, time progressed in a not entirely linear but ultimately forwards-moving manner resulting in the freedom of monsters after a lot of befriending and saving lost ones has happened. Everyone is happy, nobody died. 

Except.

The fact that none of that ever happened - the things that he can’t remember, has only experienced in dreams with no reason, emotions with no cause, reflexes without trigger, has only researched via technology and an old, dishevelled notebook kept safely in the innards of the only sub-temporally grounded piece of machinery he knows of - doesn’t mean that none of it ever _happened_. 

It happened and it didn’t happen, both at once, two eigenstates superposed.

Schrödinger’s timeline. 

“She’s slipping,” Dolores says, interrupting his digressive deliberation of the complexities in perceiving and describing alterations of the fourth dimension and her own string of arguments to convince Papyrus that watching Zombieland is a fantastic idea now that Undyne’s sold on it.

‘Are you aware that the continued existence of this current version of you hinges entirely on the chaotic and inscrutable whims of a trigger happy pre-teen child?’ is what he wants to ask.

“yeah,” is what he says instead.

“You should catch her,” Dolores says.

“you catch her.”

“You’ve agreed you’re drift compatible, you do the catching.”

“no, you.”

Dolores does the thing where she raises one, and only one, of her pencil-thin, plucked to perfection eyebrows.

Sans raises one of his brow bones incrementally.

Dolores raises hers higher, and so does he, and then Dolores notices what he’s doing, decides she doesn’t like it and lets her eyebrow go back home.

Aw. _You_ would have gone through with it, he thinks, because you understand the necessity of following through with slightly immature behaviour to see the inevitably resulting hilarity. You’re cool like that. Dolores, fun as she can be in her own way, really needs to get herself a better sense of humour instead of that raging bundle of acidic sarcasm and black comedy. He still hopes to be the one to tickle the first dick joke out of her. It’s a matter of pride, really. 

“SANS, I AM APPALLED! THAT IS NOT THE BEHAVIOUR OF A GENTLESKELETON!” 

“you’ve always been the better gentleskeleton out of the two of us,” Sans says with a shrug.

“YOU SHOULD AT LEAST BE A GOOD FRIEND AND PREVENT HER FROM VIOLENTLY SMASHING HER HEAD ON THE FLOOR!”

Dolores nods sagely to that, which irritates Sans a little bit because come on, it’s bad enough to have his brother nag him without this sort of support, or rather when his brother does it he can appreciate it despite being otherwise fundamentally opposed to nagging because it’s his brother. Get out of here, Dolores, this is not your nag to butt into. 

Sans extends his hand and carefully presses against your clavicles until you flop back against the backrest of the couch, head tipped back, and raises his brow bones at his brother. And Dolores. She rolls her eyes and he suppresses the urge to conjure a tongue and stick it out at her. He should probably not suppress it, because that’s just what you get for interfering with his verbal sparring with his brother. He does though, if only because speaking up now that Dolores and Papyrus have resumed their discussion about the merits and faults of violent zombie movies using said violence as a means of comedy would require more effort than he’s willing to expend at this point. Instead he contents himself by watching Dolores lose this particular battle of wills in the face of his brother’s unwavering steadfastness. 

They end up in front of your laptop browsing other movie options, which is to say that Dolores as the person who knows how the website works is doing the actual browsing while his brother, Undyne and Alphys sit in a circle around her talking over each other with a lot of hand waving and head shaking, only returning to their seats when they have decided on Captain America. The movie has a blonde hero with an unshakeable moral code, the ideal paragon for Papyrus to admire. 

Sans is happy for his brother.

He finds it reassuring, in a very straightforward and entirely unsettling way, that despite his knowledge of the futility of attachments in the face of continuous undoing of everyone’s experiences, he has maintained his capability to love his brother. Because losing that - well. What point would there be left, really? To anything? It had been bad enough when his continued research into the nature of the time-space continuum had slowly snipped away his enthusiasm and what capacity for attachments as a whole he had possessed. 

Sans had gazed long into that abyss, and the abyss had gazed back. 

Thanks, abyss.

He supposes that this at least means that he’s in good company, scientifically speaking. He can high-five not only Nietzsche, but also Gödel, Price, Cantor and a couple of others on his way down into the dark hell specifically reserved for scientists who end up maybe less than happy after poking their noses into things one might not be meant to poke one’s nose in. Nasal bone. Whatever. 

No matter the olfactory organ involved, it’s a good idea to keep it out of things that endanger the mental health of its owner. Which is part of the reason he hasn’t gone back to his machine ever since emerging from the Underground. He knows he can’t postpone it forever, though. Enthusiasm lost, the drive to _know_ is still there, fuelled now by nothing but sheer paranoia, fuelled by the anticipation of a temporal extinction event, fuelled by the the always present needling of _what if_.

What scares him, maybe above everything else he has reason to be scared of with the knowledge of the time-fuckery that’s happening around him, is that he doesn’t notice. For all the echoes of a shadow of a memory that he has, of losing Papyrus, of dying, he has nothing of the moment where the timeline stops and reality unravels from a gordian knot of save-loads into the fading nothingness as the anomaly, as Frisk, decides that the timeline has run its course and they’re done with it, taking the spark of life with them as they leave. 

So if it happens again he won’t know. 

And what he knows is that if he died, but is alive now, but still has that image of dying in his not-brain or whatever the fuck else he thinks with, then it’s not him in those flashes, merely a version, _a_ Sans instead of _this_ Sans, a person that might have been him but isn’t, that he’s merely vaguely in neural continuity with, and that person - that person died. 

For Frisk, that might not change much. They make the timeline jump back to its starting point and there’s what they’re used to seeing: the monsters of the ruins, Toriel, Sans, Papyrus, and so on. But they’re not the _same_ monsters as the ones Frisk left behind upon that reset, not strictly speaking. 

A reset for Frisk is nothing but a do-over, a reset for him and everyone he cares about means death.

A death with the vague hope that another Sans in another timeline will find himself in superior circumstances, a timeline that he himself as he sits here right now on his saggy old couch with a couple of humans at his sides will not happen to reside in. The knowledge of that happening while they were Underground is bad enough, the idea of it happening here, when they’re out, is worse. So he hasn’t looked. But he will. Soon. Maybe? Probably. At some point. 

How much knowledge of his own continued mortality, in the metaphysical sense, does he really need? 

Maybe he should be worried about his apparent emotionally masochistic proclivities. 

Papyrus has fallen asleep in front of the couch, which Sans thinks is a good thing considering that the Captain America movie ends a bit more tragically than he anticipated a movie about a spandex clad-hero to end. Sans can certainly emphasise with the Captain as he stands, confused, in a version of his city that he’s unable to remember. It’s also a good thing because Dolores and Undyne high-five and load up Zombieland after all, which is actually quite funny in a very, very dark kind of way, not that he expected anything else given what he’s seen so far of Dolores’ taste in both movies and comedy. It does fit Sans’ mood, in any case.

Dolores falls asleep during the last third of Zombieland. 

He watches her head drop forwards just like yours did and decides not to be an ass to her, just because, and reaches forward to tip her head back just like he tipped yours back. There. Go on and tell him how he’s not a gentleskeleton, he’s crushing this whole thing of being on friendly terms with humans, and fuck you too for making that so difficult, Frisk. He’s also jostling you, a little bit. You’re not waking up, good, but you are slowly allowing gravity to drag you into a lateral position with your head appropriating some choice real estate on his shoulder, which he isn’t so keen about. He might be unreasonably inclined to be your buddy, but the two of you definitely aren’t on sleeping-on-each-other’s-shoulder-terms yet. 

Sans tries to prop you up against the backrest of the couch again, but you’re too heavy against him. 

In front of the couch, Undyne and Alphys have started to recline into a spooning position, and he really hopes that’s all they’re doing because with you half-burying his side and their lovey-dovey behaviour, he’s starting to feel uncomfortable. He can feel your skin against his right clavicle and the absence of magic on it still makes his bone rattle, only figuratively, but just because he’s good at suppressing the literal part of the rattling. 

All his life, he has learned to associate the sensation of magic with sapience, because there had been no sapient creatures in the Underground that had no magic. And then they get out and meet humans who walk and talk and joke just like the monsters do, but the silence on their skin is a stark reminder that humans are not monsters.

You don’t _feel_ like a person to him. 

That had been a surprise, in a way, because Frisk had enough magic thrumming through their body to fill up the Underground twice over, which was unsettling on an entirely different level, and because of that he had not taken the rational knowledge of the fact that humans lost their magic over time and applied it to actual people with actual faces. A person lacking one of the subjective essentials of personhood was beyond uncanny, as Sans had found out firsthand. Heh. Because he’d touched your hand. That was honestly enough touching for him.

He thinks about manipulating your gravitational pull but decides that the sledgehammer method isn’t going to cut it here, then shuffles to his left, leans away from you until your head comes to rest on the fabric of his hoodie covering his ribs. It’s not that he particularly wants you lying on his ribs either, but in comparison to the alternative he vastly prefers this arrangement of body parts. The optimal configuration would be him, on his mattress, alone, with you in literally any place that wasn’t his and his brother’s room. Unfortunately, Papyrus has fallen asleep in the living room and there’s no way he’s leaving is baby brother alone in a room with humans while he’s asleep, friendship or no. Especially not with the anomaly being right next door. 

So yeah, not ideal, but he can take it if it means he’ll get to keep an eye on Paps.

Sans is acutely aware that this accomplishes approximately nothing and is merely a vexing impulse to try and reclaim control over a situation that has stripped him of all other forms of control. It’s not as if he could truly stop a human from hurting his brother. He knows because he’s tried. Or rather, a Sans that imparted a blurry and fragmental not-memory into his subconscious has tried, and he reaps the benefit of that knowledge.

But still. 

This is what he has, his love for Papyrus and the ineffectual clinging to an effigy of control, and if keeping this in the face of losing everything else means he’ll have to fall asleep on a couch with the weight of a human seeping heat through his hoodie on his ribs then that is what he’ll do. At least the human doing the seeping is you.

It could be worse, as far as humans go.


	4. Mr. Soul Scientist [G@$*€*..+++ERROR+++]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Undertale Anniversary!

( _A collection of faded, wrinkled sheets of paper, many of them stained with coffee rings and unidentifiable spatters, covered in tight, jagged and very irregular handwriting. On top lies a letter, less stained and more carefully written, but just as old and faded._ )

My friend,  
You know it has always been my hope to not only push the boundaries of our knowledge, but also to educate those who follow after us. The next generation of brilliant young scientists, curious and eager to prove themselves, is one of our greatest resources, not just in the effort of breaking the barrier. Science as a whole is a continuous effort to build on the knowledge of those that came before us, and those who come after us will need our knowledge in order to push the boundaries between the possible and the impossible yet further. I understand your hesitation, but I beg you to reconsider - let me teach what I know, let me pass on what I have learned. To alleviate your worries, I send you a first, rough draft of my proposed textbook. Do not worry, it is written in common script for your convenience. I have used not only my own theoretical and practical research as a source, but also spent countless hours in interviews and scouring our oldest libraries for those few nuggets of fact that survive from the pre-war era. Yes, that was the reason for all the questions I asked you. I apologise again for your discomfort, but you cannot deny this exchange has been highly educational. Don’t let it have been a waste.  
G

__________________________________________

 

**The Soul - Overview**  
The soul is the essence of one’s being. Each sapient creature, be it monster or human, has a soul, though the composition and characteristics vary between the species and also between individuals. Just like each monster has an individual magical signature and every human has a unique fingerprint, each soul has unique characteristics that are the result of its formation, evolution, structure and colour. 

Every soul takes the shape of a simplified heart. In monsters, the point of the heart is directed upwards, while in humans, the point is directed downwards. The scientific community is still debating whether this is part of the reason why monster souls, and in extension monsters, tend to be more stable than human ones. 

Souls, when viewed with the naked eye, always appear in only a single colour. In monsters, this colour is always white, while human souls can be one of seven colours. Both correspond to certain character traits that are dominant in the respective monster or human. Despite their monochromatic appearance, a full spectrum analysis reveals that every soul has at the very least trace amounts of every other colour or trait. Depending on how large these amounts are, a soul and the creature it belongs to will exhibit specific characteristics, outlined below. The complete absence of any colour or trait is a sign of mental instability and unhinged behaviour.

Soul science as a field suffers from the fact that the soul is regarded as a private and intimate thing by monsters, not to be shown to anyone but one’s long-term romantic partner. If this stigma could be overcome, our knowledge about souls could possibly grow exponentially. As of right now, monsters remain wary of soul science as a field and the focus of its studies have largely been centered on the human souls collected by his Majesty, King Asgore Dreemurr. As a result, we know far more about the makeup of human souls in comparison to monster souls. This must be remembered when it appears that human souls are more complex than monster ones - this may simply be a bias caused by our relative lack of knowledge in regards to the specifics of monster souls.

**Monster Souls**  
A monster soul takes the shape of a heart pointing upwards. Each monster soul has love, hope and compassion as its dominant traits, which together give the soul its white colour. Without these, a monster soul cannot exist. While monster souls may still have any of the common human traits, they are not strong enough to overpower the three main monster traits and tinge the soul. 

In order to determine which additional traits a monster soul exhibits, and how strong they currently are, a full spectrum analysis of the monster soul is necessary, something that has only happened three times as of writing this. 

A monster's soul and its magic compose their entire being. Unlike a human soul, it will not persist after death and can not easily be separated from the magical body the soul has formed around itself. To do so is an act that consumes large amounts of magical energy to sustain both body and soul and leaves the monster performing the act highly vulnerable; if body and soul do not remain in close distance to each other, the body of the monster performing the act will be destroyed, causing the soul to dissipate as well. Thus monsters consider this act to be extremely intimate and significant, especially because of its role in monster conception. 

Since monster souls and bodies are so closely linked, monsters are very vulnerable to physical attacks, especially if they are not inclined to fight back. They fare better when it comes to defending themselves from magical attacks, thanks to the magical composition of their bodies. Should a monster be struck down, the soul will instantly dissipate into dust together with its body, unless it is a boss monster’s soul. These special souls will be able to hold together for a few moments after death, during which they are vulnerable to absorption by a human. It is the duty of each monster witnessing the death of a boss monster to ensure that its soul will not be absorbed by a human. 

**Human Souls**  
A human soul takes the shape of a heart pointing downwards. Unlike monster souls, human souls are never fully white and always exhibit a colour, meaning they always have at least one trait that is stronger than either love, mercy or compassion. In cases where these three are still strongly present, a human soul may appear lighter in colour; this is referred to as a soul with a resonant core. But, there are also cases in which they are strongly weakened or completely absent, in which case the colour will appear dulled and muted. These are respectively referred to as souls with a diminished or voided core. 

Unlike monsters, humans are not their souls in their entirety. Rather, their souls are housed in a physical, biological vessel which interacts with the soul and vice versa. As a result of this, humans are very resilient to physical attacks, but their souls are also easily separated from their bodies. In this state, they are very vulnerable to magic. A human soul will persist after death for a long time and can be absorbed by a monster to gain large amounts of power. 

**Human Soul Colour Theory**  
The individual composition of colours inside a human soul is called a “Harmony.” A Harmony always has one main colour or trait, and additionally shows how pronounced the other traits or colours are in comparison to the main. The main colour is the one that is visible with the naked eye and will determine what the soul will be called. Eg. a purple or persevering soul. To see the full Harmony of a human soul, a complete spectrum analysis is necessary. 

The human soul colours with their corresponding traits are as follows:  
Red - Determination  
Orange - Bravery  
Yellow - Justice  
Green - Kindness  
Aqua - Patience  
Blue - Integrity  
Purple - Perseverance

When talking about soul colour theory, colours and their corresponding traits are arranged in accordance to their position in the colour wheel. Red and purple would thus be considered neighboring colours just as red and orange are neighboring colours, while red and green would be complementary as they are opposite each other. Aqua is generally considered complementary to orange, but depending on the individual Harmony it can rarely be complementary to red.

The Harmony of a human soul can be as follows:

Monochromatic: A soul that exhibits a single colour more strongly than any other. Eg. A soul that is almost pure purple or pure red, with only the smallest traces of other colours or traits visible. This is fairly rare and tends to result in very charismatic, vivacious and confident individuals that may have something special about them - it is said that in the pre-war era, these souls found it the easiest to develop the potential in their souls into actual magical powers. The downside of this is that they are also at a high risk of becoming unhinged and dangerous, losing themselves in a fanatic and unhealthy pursuit of their trait. Very often, they will end up in places of power and leadership, for better or worse. The first fallen human is an example of a pure red soul of determination.

Complementary: A soul that is comprised of a main colour and a large amount of the one opposite to it, with amounts of the others visible in distinctively smaller amounts. Eg. A soul that is mainly orange and aqua. This is less common and more often than not produces people who are said to have “two faces”, or that are not very dependable. They often feel torn between their two strongest convictions, leading to indecision and slightly erratic behaviour. Complementary souls may need a while to balance themselves out and find peace between their two traits, but when they do, they often end up becoming positive influences to those around them who find it easy to take on a new perspective to offer advice. The purple soul of perseverance collected by his Majesty King Asgore exhibits such a Harmony.

Split Complementary: A soul that is comprised of one main colour, and two neighboring complementary colours, with the others in the background. Eg. A soul that is mainly blue, orange and yellow. This Harmony is fairly common and is best described as an uneasy peace: on one hand, these souls tend to be calm and well-balanced, with strengths that feed into and support each other, but on the other hand, they are very vulnerable and easily become sluggish and depressed if they are unable to act in accordance to all three of their main traits, in some cases even developing self-destructive tendencies. The green soul of kindness collected by his Majesty King Asgore exhibits this harmony. 

Double Complementary: A soul that is comprised of a main colour, a neighboring colour, and the two complementary colours of these, with the others only visible as trace amounts. Eg. A soul that is mainly green, with an aqua neighbor and complementaries of red and orange. This is very rare and tends to lead to souls who are very insecure about who they are as a person. They have a tendency to lash out and be neurotic and anxious while they try to make peace between their contrasting traits. If they can manage to balance themselves out, they are a force to be reckoned with, capable and willing of overcoming even the greatest hurdles to achieve their goals. Both the blue soul of integrity and the yellow soul of justice collected by his Majesty King Asgore exhibit such a Harmony.

Analogous: A soul comprised of three colours, a main and the neighbors to its left and right, with the others visible in smaller amounts equal to each other. Eg. A soul that is aqua, with analogous colours of blue and green. This is the most common Harmony and results in confident and stable individuals who tend to know who they are and what they want to be early, and who like who they are. More often than not, they tend to go with the flow and find themselves in supportive roles, where they can have a strong positive impact. They can easily become complacent and dull if they don’t challenge themselves, though, which can cause petty or even spiteful behaviour. The aqua soul of patience collected by his Majesty King Asgore exhibits this type of Harmony.

Triad: A soul comprised of a main colour and two others that form a triangle on the colour wheel. Eg. A soul that is mainly green, with orange and purple, the other colours visible evenly in smaller amounts between. This is very common and like a split complementary, leads to individuals that are stable and centered within themselves, able to draw strength from their three interacting traits. Unlike split complementary souls, they are not as easily unbalanced and simply focus on their two other traits if one can not be acted upon, meaning that they tend to be resilient even in times of trouble. They need to be very careful not to abandon this trait completely though, or they’ll end up unstable and irritable to the point of taking others down with them - their greater resilience leads to a much greater fallout if they destabilise. The orange soul of bravery collected by his Majesty King Asgore exhibits this harmony.

While these terms describe the colours and traits that are most strongly present in a given human soul, other colours and their traits may still present themselves, if fractionally and in the background. A complete absence of any of these traits is rare and often a sign of unhinged individuals. Having any colour as the main one and others only in fractional amounts does not mean that other traits cannot be strongly exhibited depending on current circumstances. In fact, souls can briefly resonate with any given colour or trait if an event that is highly significant to the soul triggers this trait. For example, even a pure, monochromatic blue soul of integrity could be briefly filled with red, or determination, if an event that reminds them of or signifies this trait occurs. Thanks to this fact, the essence of any given trait can theoretically be extracted from any given human soul, a key point in our research thus far. 

**Extraction of Soul traits**  
The extraction of a soul trait was long considered impossible, but today we know that this is not true. Using the same technology that makes up the basis for a full spectrum analysis, we can separate the colours and traits of an individual soul, isolate the desired one, and distill it into a viscous liquid, which can then be used for further experimentation. In this form, it is possible to inject a trait directly into another soul or physical vessel, the results of which vary.

A monster soul injected with a liquefied trait will gain great amounts of power. Regular injections have so far proven very successful in the two test subjects, resulting in enhanced magical abilities, reflexes and fighting prowess. The separation of the monster soul and the magical body is easier with every injection. It should theoretically be possible to strengthen the injected monster soul to the point of being on par with a boss monster, or even the human soul itself. Research ongoing.

There is reason to assume that a physical, non-sapient vessel injected with a liquid trait will react to it. So far, this theory has not yet been tested, but there are interesting possibilities in regards to its application to breaking the barrier. Further development and testing of the underlying principles is necessary before a proposal for funding this experiment can be made.

A human soul should theoretically be strengthened and altered by an injection of liquid trait. While there has not yet been an opportunity to test this, it should be possible to completely change a Harmony with such injections and thus alter the base character of the individual. In addition to this, a soul injected with enough trait essence is speculated to gain magic. It is strongly advised to test this theory as soon as possible, if not because of the interest in shattering the barrier, then because of its possible historical significance.

**Artificial Souls**  
A new monster soul is born when two souls connected by strong emotions reach a moment of congruence. In this moment, the souls essences will be greater than the sum of their parts and the extra essence will split from the parental souls, fill with magic and become its own entity. In humans, the conception of new life happens entirely on a biological basis. It is currently not known how and when the human soul begins to develop, but it is fully present and viable at birth. Interestingly, the lack of a congruent emotion at the moment of conception does not appear to have a lasting effect on the newborn human soul. In humans, even a soul conceived in spite can grow up to be a healthy and loving individual, while even a soul born out of love can end up cruel and merciless. It is currently not known how this is possible. 

While a monster soul will be fully shaped and viable immediately after its conception and begin to form its infant body around itself, a human soul apparently needs to incubate and grow together with its vessel at least for a little while in order for both to be viable. Therein lies the difficulty of creating a human soul artificially. While souls cannot be created out of nothing, it is in fact possible to create a monster soul artificially if one is able and willing to gather the necessary materials, and successful attempts have been made (see Appendix A for case studies). But for a viable human soul, a vessel to develop alongside it, and a careful balance between the two would be necessary, and it is this interactive balance that is notoriously difficult to create and maintain. Research into cloning is ongoing. 

**Practical Applications**  
In order to use the fundamental theory underlying the study of the soul in a practical manner, a combination of technological and magical means is necessary. Just like the initial spectrograph used for soul analysis, a modified version of the CHECK in combination with 

( _The page cuts off here._ )

( _On the next page, there is a sketch of a skull-like apparatus, resembling a bird's head and labelled with numbers, the sentence ‘see appendix b’ written into a corner. There are no other sheets of paper._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Edit: [Have a graphic explaining colour theory to make this easier to understand!](https://www.motocms.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/color-theory-infographic-paper-leaf.jpg) See especially the right side, under colour relationships. That's how it works! It's colour theory!


	5. Soul Science is Real [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sans looks some things up.
> 
> My tumblr: http://trashcandisaster.tumblr.com/

RS ACCESS TERMINAL 01. ENTER COMMAND

>login

PLEASE ENTER USER NAME

>sans

VALID USER. PLEASE ENTER USER AUTHENTICATION

>fuckdeterminati0nfuckthean0maly

AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>access file soulscan01.ssd

FILE SECURITY LEVEL RED. RESTRICTED ACCESS TO USERS WITH LEVEL RED SECURITY CLEARANCE. PLEASE ENTER PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER (PIN)

>9874-0091-8475-1073

PIN ACCEPTED.  
USER NAME: sans  
TITLE: Assistant to the Royal Scientist  
CLEARANCE LEVEL: Red

ACCESSING FILE…

DISPLAYING soulscan01.ssd

>cancel

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>access file soulscan02.ssd

ACCESSING FILE…

DISPLAYING soulscan02.ssd

>cancel

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>sudo MEP.app ld soulscan01.ssd + soulscan02.ssd

LOADING… 

STARTING PROGRAM…

RETRIEVING FILES…

NO MAGIC ENERGY POTENTIAL DETECTED. SUB POTENTIAL 35% VS 28%. 

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>sudo MEP.app ld secretfrisk.ssd

FILE SECURITY LEVEL REDREDRED///+++$%§/”&///ERROR///. RESTRICTED ACCESS TO USERS WITH LEVEL REDredr0d///!§&$&$()=§///fffffFFFFFEEEE//// SECURITY CLEARANCE. PLEASE ENTER 

PLEASE ENTER

PLEASE ENTER

PLEASE ENTER

///CRITICAL ERROR///

>groundhogdaywasashittym0vie

LOADING…

WARNING. ACCESS TO BACKDOOR ADMINISTRATOR ACCOUNT timelocked01 REQUESTED. EXECUTING PROGRAMS FROM BACKDOOR ADMINISTRATOR ACCOUNT WITHOUT PROPER KNOWLEDGE OF PROCEDURES MAY COMPROMISE THE SYSTEM. CONTINUE?

>y

LOADING…

PLEASE ENTER PERSONAL KEYPHRASE 1

>If Time Lords Were Real I’d Steal A Tardis Just To Kick The An0maly 

KEYPHRASE ACCEPTED. PLEASE ENTER PERSONAL KEYPHRASE 2

>the p0opLord has sp0ken sesame 0pen

KEYPHRASE ACCEPTED. 

USER NAME: timelocked01  
TITLE: -  
CLEARANCE LEVEL: All

LOADING… 

STARTING PROGRAM…

RETRIEVING FILE…

MAGIC ENERGY POTENTIAL DETECTED. TYPE: HUMAN MAGE, MEP 103947799999999999999999%.

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>logout

USER timelocked01 SUCCESSFULLY LOGGED OUT. ALL ACCESS RECORDS FOR THIS USER HAVE BEEN AUTOMATICALLY DELETED FROM THE LOG. REPLACEMENT PACMAN SESSION INSERTED IN THE LOG.

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>logout

USER sans SUCCESSFULLY LOGGED OUT. 

RS ACCESS TERMINAL 01. ENTER COMMAND

>shutdown

SHUTTING DOWN…

IT IS NOW SAFE TO TURN OFF THE COMPUTER.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	6. Trigger Happy Human Hands [Mettaton]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened to the monsters at the mall.

He leaves the camera running, of course he does.

The show must go on. 

It's maybe not _terribly_ interesting to listen to a discussion on which shops to hit next, but it spares him the effort of having to repeat it for his audience and on top of that, it gives his viewers the feeling of listening in to something _private_ , something _secret_ , which is always a good boost for the ratings. 

Tell someone no, and suddenly they'll only be more interested, that's just how it works. 

He checks his ratings again and ah, yes, there it is as predicted, the little boost in viewers accompanied by comments about how exciting it is to listen in, so sneaky, all of that. He knows his game. It had worked like that in the Underground and to his great delight it works the same way up here.

Monsters and humans really aren't all that different.

He does hope the trip will continue quickly though, even secrecy isn't enough to make a discussion like that interesting for a _long_ time, and really, he can't have his audience bored, that won't do!

And yet, when the hand grenade clatters onto the table in front of him, it's not a pleasant surprise. 

“What - “

“MOVE!”

It would be a blur, if it wasn't for the fact that he has a robot body. A ghost in the machine, literally, a soul piloting a metal husk. Humans are souls piloting fleshy shells, so he supposes he's not that different from them in that regard, too. The point is, his body influences him.

His mechanic body has several CPUs and a high amount of RAM and his systems are well cared for and optimized for efficiency thanks to Alphys. 

This means he has time to think about what is happening, because he's capable of thinking _exceptionally_ fast.

There is a grenade and based on the visual input he receives and the comparisons he makes to his own bombs and how they look like at various stages before and during explosion, it will go off in approximately five seconds. Security measures need to implemented.

Mettaton has been given a list, the people he's supposed to protect from highest to lowest priority. He hates that list, he hates the categorization of his friends into priorities that are _all wrong_. But it's the list he's been given and he's promised to heed by it.

The first priority is Frisk. That, he can actually agree with. But Frisk is too far out of his reach, already picked up by a soldier.

The second priority are you and Dolores. Fine. You are picked up by the same soldier who's carrying Frisk, Dolores is next to Asgore, who has already half curled an arm around her protectively.

The third priority is Sans, and that's what galls him. He understands it intellectually, that a monster with a single HP and a skill as useful as teleportation needs to be protected, but that doesn't mean he likes it. Sans isn't a bad monster, he's always done a good job as a comedian at his resort, even if he'd had sometimes barely made it to his shows on time, and he always had a joke and a kind word for Mettaton's other employees afterwards. But saving Sans before Alphys - it feels wrong. 

Unfortunately for him, Sans had not been looking at the table, is still in the middle of turning towards it, so priority four - Alphys, who normally would have been his first priority together with Frisk, if it had been for him to decide - will have to wait. 

His singular wheel retracts and makes way for a jet engine that propels him quickly towards Sans.

“wha - ”

He tells his system to calculate the optimal angle to grab the skeleton and pulls the stunt off without a hitch, tackling him without harming him, pulling him away while protecting him with his sturdy rectangular body. He aims for a decorative wooden pot to hide against. Behind him, the grenade explodes and he hears screams and splintering metal and fire. The sounds give him some idea about the strength of the thing. He can't afford to turn his face to see for himself, what the results are, but if everyone ran then hopefully nobody should be hurt too badly. Coming to a halt behind the wooden pot, he hear another explosion, larger and louder, accompanied by the crunching and shattering of metal and glass. The lights go out. 

Mettaton catches a glimpse of Sans’ face when he pushes the skeleton down, shielding his small frame with his metal body. He looks scared, worried, and angry. Smoke fills the air and debris and shards of glass hit Mettaton’s body, leaving nothing but small scratches in the paint of his hull. He waits a few seconds before he straightens himself and brings his wheel back under his body to look around. 

His regular cameras are useless in the dim light conditions, so he switches to his secondary one, picking up heat signatures. The world in front of him shifts from grey haze into shades of blue, the environment faintly outlined and dotted with bright red splotches in the shape of humans, and white splotches in the shape of monsters. A quick count tells him that all monsters appear to be alive. Next to the white shape of Asgore, the red shape of Dolores stands upright. He has a harder time finding you or Frisk among the many shapes spread out in front of him. 

“fuck,” he hears Sans curse next to him. One of the red shapes - not Dolores - turns to their direction. He pulls Sans down and shields him again, just in time before he hears the shot and feels the bullet ricochet off his body. It rattles him, the force of it is not enough to penetrate the metal and hurt him, but there’s another small scratch and a dent on the surface. He can take it, but only barely. 

“Can you...?” He quietly asks Sans, not daring to be more explicit. Sans doesn’t like to talk about his teleports when humans are nearby. 

“in here? no. can’t see anything with the smoke.”

That’s unfortunate. It’ll do as an emergency measure if he can go back to Ebott or Underground, but it’s not what they need right now. He hears more shots, not aimed at them this time. People are screaming. 

“can ya see paps?” He sounds worried. Mettaton understands the feeling. He twists his metal body, thinking he should at some point ask Alphys to maybe give him some cameras in the back of his head, too. Peeking out from behind the wooden pot, he can see the shape of the others clear as day, all present. 

“Yes. I see everyone but Frisk and - “ Another bullet hits him, this time in the display. It still doesn’t hurt him, but he really _hates_ having a scratch there. 

“fuck,” Sans repeats. “we gotta get to the others and find them.”

“Hold on.” He wraps his arms around Sans, ignoring the evident surprise on his face. No time for that. As soon as he feels the bony arms wrapped around him, he ignites his jet engine again and swiftly flies up towards the ceiling. Shots are fired, but they aren’t hit this time. He makes a swift dive towards Asgore and lands close to the king, where he sets Sans down. The skeleton immediately scoots close to his brother. They have all taken cover behind a barricade made of several metal tables stacked on top of each other. Apart from the monsters, Dolores is there with them, as are several soldiers, though not all of them. Mettaton knows Alphys is okay from his thermal vision, but he still approaches her just to make sure, switching back to his regular vision. 

“M-mettaton! Did you see - “

“No, darling. There are too many humans in that direction, I don’t know where they are exactly.” 

Alphys kneads her fingers in a gesture of obvious worry, an upset expression on her face. “Oh no. Oh no no no… what are we going to do now?”

“We have to _fight_ ,” Undyne says immediately. 

“We can’t,” Asgore retorts. “We can’t hurt humans. It would negate all our efforts for peace and I don’t want another war.” 

“Asgore…” Toriel starts, sounding impatient and angry.

Mettaton is suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s still streaming. Did he actually _forget_? Shame on him. What kind of a star is he? Well, time to do something about it. 

The show must go on. 

“It’s not necessary to hurt them,” he finds himself saying. “But we should at least disarm and capture them. If we don’t they could hurt our friends and several innocent humans in this mall. I could distract them for you.”

“Mettaton, no!” Alphys clings to his arm, looking like she’s close to tears. Much better. Offering to be a brave hero, with his close friend begging him not to go - that’s very much preferable to discussions of fighting humans and war and a potential bicker between the royal ex-couple that could lead to them blurting out some things under stress that should better not be said while half of the world is watching. He quickly checks his ratings. Oh yes! Much of the world! 

“Darling, their bullets don’t hurt me. You built me well.” She looks doubtful, but Asgore takes the opportunity. 

“Are you sure? How long do you think you can withstand them?”

“So far all they’ve left is scratches. It’s nothing.” It’s not actually nothing. His beautiful chassis is _scratched_. But if he’s going to be the brave hero in this little piece, then he has to follow the script, and the script for heroes usually doesn’t include whining about ruined appearances. 

Asgore thinks, and he’s quick. Well, he must have the necessary experience. 

“Undyne, Papyrus, grab a table each, use it as a shield. The three of us will spread out and try to find as many people as possible. We will bring them back, heal them if they are hurt and protect them from further harm. If we can disarm the attackers, we will do that as well.” He looks to the soldiers. “Will you help us?”

“Sir, orders are to protect you and wait for backup.” 

“I am aware,” Asgore replies with a faint smile. “But I cannot sit here while people I have vowed to protect are in danger.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and turns to Toriel.

“You promised,” she hisses. 

“I know.” His voice is heavy. “I shall not break it. You are the better healer of the two of us. Will you stay behind to help the hurt?”

“I will,” she says, resentment dripping from the two words. 

“Sir. Sir, our orders - “

“Please. Protect Alphys, Sans, Dolores and Toriel while they wait for us here.” 

Everyone gets into position, despite the protests of the soldiers. 

“Mettaton? Are you ready?” 

“Darling, I am _always_ ready.” He doesn’t stay to watch the baffled look on Asgore’s face at being called darling, despite the fact that it’s really hilarious. 

_Showtime._

His jet engine ignites and he rises above the tables, moving forwards and away from the small barricade his friends have erected back there. Stretching one hand out and up, he materialises some small block bullets only to let them harmlessly explode against the floor. He’s a robot, and the humans already know he’s an expert on bombs, so it’s fine. From his chest sounds an ear-splitting alarm, wailing long and loud in rising and falling tones. 

“Beauties and gentlebeauties, how _kind_ of you to join me today. I’m very sorry to announce that the old program’s been cancelled! No more shopping trip - what we’ve planned instead will drive you _wild_! Drama! Action! Heroes! Today on our new show, ‘Attack of the Human Saving Robot,’ starring your _favourite_ host from the Underground, Mettaton!” 

He’s hit by a spray of human bullets, most of them aimed unfortunately well. It feels uncomfortable against the metal of his body, he can feel the material straining under the assault. But it works. It works. 

“There!”

“Take it out!”

“Shooting it doesn’t work - “ 

“Throw another grenade!” 

He dives. Activating his thermal vision once more, he flies over the heads of the human attackers, going so far as to reach out and pat a few of them condescendingly on their heads with very quick motions. He doesn’t dare coming closer than that - they might grab him and pull him down otherwise, he’s already risking a lot. If they get their hands on him, he doesn’t know if he can withstand them. They might just pry him apart. 

The stunt works and when the humans throw another grenade it flies into a direction that’s not towards where his friends are behind a flimsy row of metal tables. He catches the thing in mid-air anyway and throws it towards the roof, where it explodes in a loud bang and rains fire onto the attackers. Ha. Take that. 

“Why, thank you, I see somebody must have told you how much I love bombs!” He tells them loudly. “I would almost say it’s a nice welcoming present, if they weren’t aimed at me!” 

Mettaton sees Asgore, Undyne and Papyrus approaching the humans from behind and cranks it up a notch. 

“Now, let’s have a little _pop quiz_! Everyone, give a big round of applause for our contestants!” He claps, and is hit by several more bullets as the humans keep shooting at him. Oh, how he wishes he could initiate a real fight with them, so he could trap them with energy barriers and show them an actual interface with selections to pick from, and shoot his own bullets and bombs at them. It’s rather boring if he has to let his mouth do all the work, no matter how lovely his voice is. He misses his bullets. “What would be the correct welcoming present for me, Mettaton, your wonderful star of the Underground? A, money, B, a car, C - “ 

Asgore quickly reaches around two of the humans and easily takes their guns away, shoving them over and pinning them on the ground with his foot. Undyne wrestles a third one down and disarms him, while Papyrus takes care of the last one, yanking the gun out of his hands and lifting him up by the scruff of his shirt. The human tries to kick him, but Papyrus throws the gun away - Mettaton winces, but luckily it doesn’t fire - and pins the human to the ground. 

“WHAT NOW?”

Mettaton descends from his spot above the ground and lands, approaching the humans with a charge running through his hands. 

“Leave it to me.” 

Asgore lifts his foot and Mettaton touches the humans, the sharp zap of the electricity stunning them. He repeats the process with the humans Undyne and Papyrus have captured. 

“They should be unconscious for several minutes,” Mettaton says. 

“We will bring them back for the soldiers to detain,” Asgore decides. “Then we return to search for - “

“ _DOWN_!” Undyne screams and tackles Papyrus, crashing to the floor with him. Asgore reacts quickly, dropping flat onto his stomach before she’s finished yelling. The human wielding the metal bar almost overbalances when his strike hits nothing but air, catching himself at the last second. 

“Fucking monsters - “ 

Asgore gets up and _roars_.

It’s a sound Mettaton has never heard before and never wishes to hear again. He has always known Asgore as a kind, gentle and softhearted monster. Hearing this roar, he understands how someone like him could have fought a war. 

The human whimpers and drops his metal bar. A puddle grows at his feet, a wet spot on his pants. How undignified. Humans can be so very messy. Asgore unceremoniously picks the human up and pins him against his chest. With his free hand, he picks up the four other humans. 

“Let’s go,” he says, now calm again. 

“I’ll search for Frisk and - “ Mettaton begins.

“CAN YOU SEE THEM?” Papyrus asks anxiously. 

“No, I can only see heat signatures. I’ll try my best. Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll both be okay.” He’s not actually so sure anymore if you or Frisk will be okay, not with the way these humans are shooting anything that will stand still for more than a second. But that is not what Papyrus wants or needs to hear. He has to keep the morale up. 

The three of them make their way back to the barricade of tables while Mettaton turns and flies in the direction he’s last seen you and Frisk running to. There are several human heat signatures in that direction and he really hopes he won’t find you or Frisk already dead at the feet of the terrorists when he arrives. 

He comes to a stop over the first heat signature, red in the shape of a human, on the ground. Switching to his normal vision, he sees that it’s one of the soldiers - oh no. It’s the one who grabbed you and Frisk, and he’s bleeding. 

For a second, Mettaton seriously considers stopping the livestream that’s still running in the background. He’s still filming. But no. 

He wants the humans to see this. 

All the pain, all the needless violence that they inflict on _themselves_ in their hatred. 

This is what it does, the hate towards monsters. It only hurts them too. Besides. 

The show must go on. 

He checks the surroundings. making sure there are no terrorists close by that could attack him, and descends. The soldier is still breathing, but there’s a nasty hole in his back and his helmet is dented. He has obviously been shot, and some debris must have hit him. Mettaton doesn’t think he’ll make it if he doesn’t get help fast. He wraps his arms under the human and lifts him carefully - he would like to turn him around, humans are obviously not quite meant to be carried belly-down, but then the hole in his back would be pointing towards the floor and all the messy blood would flood out and he thinks that’s probably not good. 

He flies up again, trying not to jostle the human soldier too much. His head is flopping forwards uselessly. There’s a strange, irregular, rapid movement against his hands where he’s holding the soldier. He has no idea what that is, but he’s not sure if it’s a good thing. Learning about how human bodies work has been on his to-do list ever since the barrier broke, but he’s been so _busy_. He lowers himself close to the table barricade and finds the others there unharmed to his great relief. The soldiers have already handcuffed the terrorists Asgore, Undyne and Papyrus brought back. The three must have left again though, they aren’t here. 

“This one needs help immediately,” he says.

“Fuck. First aid kit - “ One of the soldiers begins before he is interrupted.

“Leave it to me,” Toriel replies, and plucks the human out of his arms. She holds her hand over the hole in his back and prods at it with her fingers. Green flames spring to life between her digits and sink into the bleeding wound. It stops bleeding, and the flesh starts knitting itself together, pressing the bullet that was stuck inside out of the body. It takes a minute or two before the hole is closed and there’s nothing left but smooth black skin surrounded by the frayed and bloodied fabric of his uniform. The hole in the uniform will have to be repaired by other means. 

“I’ll go search again,” Mettaton announces and turns to leave.

“What the fuck was that?!” He hears one of the soldiers ask behind him.

“I healed him with my magic?” Toriel sounds confused. 

Mettaton turns around. The soldiers look dumbstruck. They look more so when the soldier in Toriel’s arms stirs with a small groan, and sits up clutching at his head. 

“What?” He asks when he finds his comrades staring at him. 

“Man, are you okay?!” 

“I thought you’d kick the bucket!”

“I’m fine? I think I was hit by something. Where’s the kid and the lady?”

Nobody answers him. The soldiers look back at Toriel with deepest respect and awe. Well. Didn’t Dolores say that human medicine had gotten quite good at healing over the past thousand years? Apparently not. She’s staring at Toriel too with the same wide-eyed expression. 

Mettaton is glad that he took a moment to stay behind and witness this as he turns to fly off again. The narrative is really coming together splendidly: the brave monsters against the evil human terrorists, protecting where they are attacking, healing where they are hurting, saving lives where they try to extinguish them, pulling fantastic tricks at the very last second to make sure no human dies. He couldn’t have written a better script if he tried. 

Now if only Frisk and you are okay. 

If not, it will all have been for nothing. The Queen would not be able to take the death of this child, he’s fairly sure. The monarchy of monsters would not survive, she would tear Asgore apart, and he would let her. And the peace with the humans would likely not survive as well despite good intentions on both sides. It’s a little bit insane, how much of the successful politics hinge on Frisk, one small human. But then it’s not the first time that’s the case.

And you. He would not like to see you go either. You, in many ways, play the same game a he does. You _understand_ the importance of a good narrative, even if what you do is a lot more subtle and has a lot less flair when compared to his own methods. Still. It would be a shame to lose a talent like that. 

Mettaton is relieved when you and Frisk are found, later while he’s still out looking for more attackers or survivors, but it’s really a shame that it was one of the soldiers instead of him. The story would have been so much better if it had been him. 

And yet. 

When the first burst of relief is over and everyone has hugged you and Frisk and the soldiers have pried them all off to have another look because you and Frisk and probably in shock and they need to make sure you don’t choke on your hysterical tears, he hangs back. Alphys is fussing over him, looking at every scratch the human bullets have left on him, and he lets her and checks his ratings, and the comments, the result of the story he’s just told. 

And the ratings are _really_ good.

And the humans love the monsters, and hate the terrorists. 

And the humans are so impressed by the healing magic, oh so very, very impressed…

Tadaa, Mettaton thinks, waiting for applause that he knows will only come much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: terrorist attacks, violence, blood, manipulative behaviour.


	7. Lizardbrained Scheme [Alphys]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alphys and Dolores are planning something.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://trashcandisaster.tumblr.com/)

You almost run into Alphys, when she comes to ask Sans about the intern applications. They have to talk to the applicants soon, and she's nervous, she doesn't like the idea of sitting down and blatantly judging others, as if she has _any right_ to judge anyone - 

You almost run into her with a strange expression on your face.

“Eep!” Oh no. What an embarrassing noise! 

“Sorry!” Ah! No, no, that was her fault, wasn't it, she should have taken better care opening the door.

“Uhm...” She has to apologise. Or say something, anything.

You run off. Oh no. Oh no, are you mad at her?! You are, aren't you, you are and now your friendship will break and she doesn't know what to do and she's trash, _worthless disgusting trash who can't do anything but break break break -_

“breathe, alph.”

The low voice jolts her out of her thoughts, the two words well known and the reaction to them automatic. She breathes. 

“S-sorry. Uhm… “

“she said she needs a moment for herself. kinda hard to get some alone time with everyone in the house, ya know? not your fault.” 

The addition comes quickly and Alphys knows that's just for her sake, because she's a mess. She wonders if he doesn't get tired of constantly having to reassure her. Probably. She'll have to try extra hard to make up for that. 

“Oh, uhm, o-okay. Y-yeah, that's true, there are always a lot of people…” It is true, she already knew that, and feels bad for having assumed the worst of you. Stars, as if she of all people couldn't understand how difficult it could be to be constantly surrounded by others, every moment of the day someone watching and listening and making noise and _judging_ -

She breathes.

She understands you, even someone who's so much better at being social, someone as outgoing as you, must need a break now and then. 

“yeah. anyway.” Sans looks… odd, Alphys thinks, she recognises the glint of disbelief in his eyes that tells her that he doesn't really believe your excuse - she wonders why, it sounds so logical to her - but there's something more there. She may have worked with him for a few years, but she's not the best at reading people, she never was, so she just doesn't know. She wishes she could do it. In her dreams, she is strong and confident and always knows what to say to make people feel better, a true hero, the dreams she had tried to live out by _endangering Frisk there is so much guilt -_

“alph?” 

“Y-yes! What? Sorry, I uh… uhm… “

“i was asking why you came over,” he says, his tone gentle. “did ya need me? or were you just feeling bonely?” 

Alphys smiles faintly at the pun and the wink he gives her. It's an old one, she knows it well, but it feels… nostalgic, and comforting, to hear it again. She had been so lonely in the lab after everyone left, after he left, after what she did. _Guilt_. She still doesn't know if he won't just leave again as soon as he can. Probably. He doesn't want to work with her anymore. 

“I was just w-wondering… uhm, how the applications are c-coming along… we. We need to talk to them. Soon, I mean, I - yes.”

“uh, yeah they're in here somewhere, gimme a second…” He scratches his head and shuffles back inside to the table, sifting through the piles of paper there. 

She follows him in. 

“S-so… there were. Good ones? H-how many…?”

“we had about three hundred applications total, but there were a lot of monsters who just tried for the prestige,” he says, still rummaging through the paper piles. “got it down to about twelve that look like they're any good.”

“That s-sounds like a good turnout! And if you're done already… we c-can start with the interviews immediately… th-that’s… good…” 

Of course it's good, that's what she has to do, that's her job, it doesn't matter that she wants nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never come out at the thought of interviewing - _judging_ \- all those other monsters, and of course she didn't _expect_ Sans to take longer for looking at the applications, didn't _expect_ his natural laziness and unwillingness to start on tasks he didn't like to stall the process -

She had _hoped_ he would.

She hates herself.

“yeah. had help, so i got it done fast. don't worry about it, alph, you're gonna do fine in the interviews. i’ll help ya.” He finally pulls the stack of applications from a pile covered in food crumbs, haphazardly clipped together in one rejected and one approved bundle. “there ya go.”

Alphys tentatively wraps her chubby hands around the papers and fights through the mess of emotions in her soul. 

“Uhm. Th-thanks… Sans. I. I really appreciate your help…” The other part of his statements registers. “You. Uhm. You had h-help… w-was that when Undyne found you touching your eye s-socket with - “

“heh. thought she'd tell ya about that. yeah, she wanted to know if i could put something into it without it hurting me… humans can't do that, apparently. she said human eyes are flimsy. but she can still touch it, it's weird. did ya know contact lenses are real? they really do put shaped plastic onto their eyeballs.” He's grinning wider now, true joy shining through at this discovery. 

“I didn't know that,” she replies in awe, fascinated by the information. It had sounded so futuristic - putting a lens onto an eye to help you see, really? It's like magic. They wouldn't even need glasses! She self-consciously adjusts her own pair and wonders if monsters can wear those lenses too. “Undyne… didn't tell me that… just that you t-touched it. And. Uhm. Leaning in?” 

“eh. she made it sound weirder than it was,” he says with a casual shrug but she sees a faint hint of blue on his zygomatic arches. 

Oh. 

Ooooooooh!! 

Could it be? Could it really be?? No way! 

Dolores had speculated about you, but this, this is new information, this could change everything! Well, not that she can draw early conclusions here, obviously. The evidence is still thin and needs to be carefully analysed. But! It _is_ something to analyse! She has to tell Dolores right away! 

“I, uhm, eheheheh, I th-thought she might. Well! I have to, uh, go and sort these! And p-prepare for the. Interviews. Yes! Okay! Bye! Thank you!!”

Quick now, quick, this might be huge, she can’t wait! 

She hurries back through the still empty garden and through the glass door into the living room, her eyes involuntarily straying to the couch when she notices that Undyne has joined Frisk in playing Portal. Oh, she looks so dreamy. Alphys still doesn’t quite understand how someone like _Undyne_ could possibly like someone like _her_ , but she won’t question this. It’s undeniably the best thing that has ever happened to her, and even if she doesn’t really deserve Undyne - she could never deserve something even half as good, and nobody could ever really deserve someone like Undyne - she will cling to it regardless, with all she has. A lovestruck sigh is all she gives now, though. Her girlfriend, her _girlfriend_ , is busy, and Alphys has important news to share. She hurries up to the gallery where Dolores is working, ignoring the sounds of the game downstairs and the shouts and whoops and hollers of Frisk and Undyne. 

“B-big news!” Alphys declares in a hushed whisper, tossing the applications on her desk. She’ll take care of that later, now she has to discuss the potential of a new ship!

“Oh?” Dolores says, not lifting her eyes from the paper she’s writing on. It’s a habit of hers that she won’t look up until she has decided that whatever she’s hearing is worthy of taking a break from work. So far, Alphys has found that topics that can induce a work-break are zombies, Muffet, the potential of Asgore and Toriel getting back together (Dolores thinks it wouldn’t work, Alphys disagrees), your potential feelings for Sans, and her own worries about her relationship with Undyne, which Alphys finds both baffling and endlessly wonderful. It really makes her feel that she is Dolores' friend. 

“Y-yes! Look, I was in the garage just now, to fetch the applications for the interviews, and we got to talk a bit about that incident with the eye touching I told you about that Undyne told me about that she saw and he totally blushed!!” She presses out in a hurried whisper. 

Undyne and Frisk are loud enough that they won’t hear if she’s quiet, and that’s good. She doesn’t think you’d want speculation of your feelings to spread through the household. But Dolores is a co-conspirator, so it’s okay to talk to her. 

Dolores is putting her pen down instantly. Score! Alphys knew this was worthy news. 

“Tell me everything,” Dolores demands gleefully. 

Alphys takes time to recount the entire meeting from start to finish in great detail, leaving no reaction out that could possibly be important. 

“... and then he said, ‘eh’ - he _always_ says 'eh' when he’s embarrassed about something, he always has, so we know he was embarrassed, so he said ‘eh, she made it sound weirder than it was,’ and he shrugged and made it look casual, you know how good he is at that, but I saw blue on his zygomatic arches - here,” she says, pointing to her cheeks when Dolores gives her a confused look at the expression. “It wasn’t _deep_ blue or anything, it was faint, but it was definitely there! And he tried to make it look casual, but we can infer from the blush and the ‘eh’ that it wasn’t casual at all!” 

Alphys can feel her tail wag a little bit as she waits for Dolores to process the news and share her thoughts about it. 

“That does sound like a development,” Dolores finally says, one hand carefully tapping her chin as she thinks. “We’ve only looked at it from her perspective until now, having a possible confirmation for feelings from his side is valuable additional information.”

“R-right?!” Dolores was such a wonderful shipping partner. Alphys never expected this when they first met, that she would find such a kindred spirit up here on the surface. They share so many things; food and work methods and workplace setup and now the shipping. Only their opinions on anime continue to differ. Oh well. At some point, Dolores will see how amazing Mew Mew Kissy Cutie is. “This opens up so many possibilities! Do you think we should make a move soon? Maybe we can help them realise their feelings…”

“No, I think it’s too soon,” Dolores counters with a headshake. “I mean, I’m bisexual, you’re bisexual, I think we can both recognise denying a crush when we see it.” 

“Uhm… n-not really…”

“Oh. Right, sorry, I keep forgetting you monsters don’t care about gender and who gets together - well. In any case, they are denying it to themselves. They need to at least have an internal epiphany before we can start, otherwise we might push them deeper into denial.” 

Alphys thoughtfully nods along, that does sound logical, even if she doesn’t quite understand why bisexuality warrants denial for humans. She understands that humans tell a lot of stories of forbidden love between partners of the same gender, but until she came to the surface, she had always thought that was for arbitrary plot reasons that don’t _actually_ exist in real life, like with the plots about forbidden relationships between Mayella Ewell and Tom Robinson or Romeo and Juliet. It’s a bit strange, how much importance humans place on gender, and the bits that go along with it. Maybe she’d understand better if she had them herself? 

Oh my, what a lewd thought! She blushes a little bit. 

“L-let’s recap then,” she says to distract herself. “We have the hand holding, their alliance during monopoly, the floating…” 

“The floating is a big one, I know it is,” Dolores says. 

“Y-yeah! Too bad we weren’t there when Frisk found them…” She would have loved to see that. It sounds so romantic! She imagines herself and Undyne floating in the air, maybe even kissing, and she nearly has to hide her snout in her hands. 

“They admitted they’re drift-compatible,” Dolores continues the list, “and the puns and pranks, of course.” 

“Th-they went on a trip to the Underground together,” Alphys adds. 

“He calmed her down when she freaked out about her soul.” 

“Undyne t-told me she asked about how monsters kiss that have no lips!”

“And you said that he’s more open with her than he usually is.”

“Y-yeah! She keeps telling me about these conversations they have, and when we worked together he never had those with anyone, and he always tells it as if it’s nothing, but I’m sure he maybe doesn’t think about it, that she could tell it differently, so it’s really obvious when he tries to play it cool!” 

“Plus, she has these moments when she’s distracted that suspiciously always happen when he’s around.”

Alphys sighs again. “They’re so cute. I ship it so hard.”

Dolores chuckles, her grin wide enough to show that she agrees with the assessment. “They’d make a really good couple, they’re a good match.”

“S-so… if they notice, we’ll do it? The plan?” 

“Of course. I promised you I'd have your back whenever you and Undyne needed time alone, I know you’d do the same for me, and I think it’s only fair if we do the same for those two and make sure they’re alone in the house together every now and then. I mean, it already worked when we tested it, that’s how we got the eye touching in the first place,” Dolores says. 

“Okay then,” Alphys says. “I’ll keep my eyes open for opportunities!” 

Dolores nods absentmindedly, looking through the gaps in the bannister of the gallery towards the glass door in the living room. 

Alphys leaves her to her thoughts, and starts to doodle little skeletons holding the hands of little humans in the margins of the application letters. 

You and Sans are going to make such a cute couple…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	8. Be still the beating Heart [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sans' perspective on some things.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://trashcandisaster.tumblr.com/)

You’re floating. 

The last flip of your soul’s gravitational pull and the subsequent complete removal of said pull has left you with enough momentum to slowly spin forwards, your hair and the fluffy cardigan you’re wearing trailing lazily behind you as your body approaches a perpendicular position and your face comes into view. For a brief second Sans thinks he needs to avert his eyes when your shirt threatens to take a stroll upwards and expose more than a small strip of your belly, but thankfully it stays in place after all. You laugh and he can almost, _almost_ feel that blazing joy bubble up in your soul where he’s left a small portion of his magic to keep you suspended. Almost. 

Good thing he can’t; that would imply activities of a dramatically different kind that he doesn’t even want to consider engaging in. That wouldn’t figure into the equation of you and him being friends. 

“you okay there, buddy? you’ve been laughing for a while now.”

“Sans, this is awesome!”

His grin stretches wider across his skull as he watches you try to right yourself when your ongoing momentum sends you into a head down position and your useless flailing is doing nothing to improve your situation. You don’t seem to mind though. 

“glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself. still nothing on the soul?”

“I - whoops - “ you accidentally kicked the hanging lamp in your efforts to turn your body back around, “I do actually feel it now, it’s like I can feel your magic going through it?”

So you can feel that part of his magic that has temporarily transferred and connected to your soul to keep you afloat, just like he can easily locate it in there, surrounded as it is by the very essence of your being. Interesting. Still, he had hoped for something else. Something more spectacular.

“but nothing more than that?”

“Nope, sorry.” You’re doing a little shimmy motion in the air that he has no idea what you're trying to achieve with. “My heart’s beating like crazy though! I’m not sure if that’s the excitement or if it’s a zero gravity thing.”

That pries a chuckle out of him. Your assumptions about his power and how it supposedly works and affects your body are a little bit funny. “why would that be a zero gravity thing?”

“Well, I don’t know, I heard zero gravity can have all sorts of crazy effects on the human body like muscles atrophying and stuff and since the heart is a muscle… It just feels kind of fast and stuttery right now, you know?“

“...wait, you mean you can actually feel your heart beating?” He can't see your face drifting the wrong way round as you do right now, but his immediate assumption is that you're shitting him. He's aware of the perpetual palpitations that keep humans alive and their blood flowing even though the concept is rather abstract to him - humans have so many fiddly bits they need to keep them running, it’s difficult to imagine all these different processes constantly ongoing somewhere in there in contrast to a monster where what you see is mostly what you get - but to be able to perceive this motion at any given time? It's a subconscious contraction that your higher brain functions have no control over, there is no reason for you to be able to feel something you can't regulate.

“Uh, yeah? Of course I can?”

“i thought that was just something humans said. like when we monsters say our soul is humming when we’re happy. like a metaphor.”

“No, it’s an actual thing. Didn’t you have books on human physiology?”

“sure, but they didn’t say you could actually feel your heartbeat! it’s just a moving muscle, you can’t feel all your other muscles moving all the time, can you?” That would be an unsettling aspect of your personal biology. Are you aware of your breathing, too? Your blinking? Every little twitch and flutter of your body at any given time? How would someone even cope with that?

“Well, no.” 

Thank the heavens, what a notion. 

“But I can feel my heartbeat. Wanna feel it too?” You stretch your arm out in the direction of the floor. “Sorry, I can’t really see you right now, but if you press here you can feel my pulse. Which is my heartbeat, basically.” You demonstrate by pressing two fingers of your other hand against your outstretched arm, right at your wrist. 

He hesitates briefly, but then he tugs you closer by your cardigan, flipping you over so you're facing the right way up again, your face in front of him with the line of your stomach and legs in parallel alignment to the floor. Your fingers press into the flesh of your wrist right underneath the point where your radius and ulna meet your carpals. He studies the exact point of pressure and the way your skin sinks under your fingers before he reaches out.

When Sans presses his own phalanges against your arm, it's a revelation.

The first thing he notices - that he would always notice no matter what, a base instinct ingrained so deep that nothing could ever stop it - is the magic. It's not the instant, raw recognition and reassurance of feeling another monster, the split-second back and forth that lets him know he and the other are fundamentally alike, belong to a class of being entirely separate and singular amidst the species on earth. Instead it's an echo that resonates in waves over your skin from the contact point where his own magic is nestled inside your soul, to keep the effect it has on your body stable. 

But it's still magic.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, just like that, you feel like a person, the notion of you as a creature of awareness and thought and logic and creativity and emotion having already existed before but not supported by this instinctual awareness of the fact as it is now. It's wild and completely inappropriate how much that actually changes. It should change very little. It changes everything. 

Sans has no comparison for the feeling itself, but he recognises the shame that accompanies it, his own flaws thrown into stark relief within a moment. What a friend he is. He would let it drown him if it were not for the second thing he feels on your arm.

Movement.

Sans can feel his sockets widen as a steady thrum wriggles against the tips of his phalanges in a rhythm that is perplexingly duplicate in nature, soothing but urgent, the drumbeat force of your perpetuated life physically present and perceivable. It's stupidly vulnerable and raw and he can't believe that your biology would be so irrational, to make something so vital accessible to anyone who cared to feel for it, to show potential enemies exactly where to hurt you the most. Unlike a soul, that's always safely sequestered in the cavity of any given being's torso, your pulse is there on open display.

It leaves him with a feeling of intruding in something private and intimate that _he should not touch_ and he yanks his hand away and stares at you in utter disbelief when you just laugh. 

He can barely parse what he says next, the entire conversation a blur under the simultaneous awe and horror of your _heartbeat_ and how it felt against the tips of his phalanges, it's wrong and he never wants to touch it again and he desperately needs to touch it again and he _really_ wants to listen to it and yet has the good sense to blush when you tell him what that would entail. 

You let him touch it again.

He briefly entertains the notion that you're maybe a little bit insane before he pushes that idea away from him and berates his own mental process for daring to go that way, because fuck, that's rude. Even if he hadn’t just touched you with magic running over your skin with a resulting epiphany about your status of sapience, he would have recognised that. He can’t think like that, about people, but especially not about you because come on, he doesn’t want to be that kind of guy. 

And yet, how can you reveal yourself to him so completely? 

He has the force of your life casually oscillating underneath his fingers. 

You barely know him and yet you trust him with your life, apparently.

What the fuck. 

The terrible thing is that you don't even seem to notice and he isn't sure if that's just you or if it’s a human thing, a casual disregard for actual danger caused by the strength of human bodies and their capability for survival and the terrifying force of their determination. Your heartbeat slows and he almost panics, wonders if he pressed too hard, if he pressed the life out of you in the most literal sense, a terrifying thought that he feels might haunt him in the time to come. He had always been aware of how frail monsters were compared to humans, so easily crushed to dust under the impact of their emotion-fuelled strength, and yet now you had revealed to him that humans, in their own way, were similarly fragile. 

But no. 

Your heartbeat just slows until it reaches a new average of beats per minute, and then it stays there, steady as anything. He wonders what it’s like, to carry your own metronome inside, a frequency underlying the fabric of your life. It’s hard to imagine, never reaching something like absolute silence. It fits humans, noisy as they tend to be.

He moves his hand up and down your arm, but he gravitates back to your wrist. Your heartbeat is not easily perceivable up there.

“Hello? Earth to Sans?”

“what?” He looks up suddenly, embarrassed that he got so absorbed by your body that he didn’t even hear you, and then quickly lets go of your arm again. “sorry. this is really weird. uh. ...yeah.”

“It’s okay, it’s funny seeing you so confused about it,” you tell him with a grin.

“not confused. just surprised.” Shaken, more accurately. He still can’t believe you’d let him feel something so intimate while he had been barely able to accept your sentience.

“Are you?” You look at him with a knowing gleam in your eyes. 

“huh?” Something’s wrong. 

“Surprise is an emotional state experienced as the result of an unexpected significant event,” you say. “If you are still capable of experiencing it, then that means you haven’t gone deep enough yet.”

He knows that voice. No, not that voice, that voice is yours, but the _way_ you’re speaking - 

His head hurts. 

“You’re ignoring significant information and your research is inadequate to explain the current progression of events,” you state, still floating in the air in front of him. 

“this isn’t what happened,” he protests helplessly. 

“No? Then there must be an explanation. Surely your mental capacity is high enough to render you capable of figuring it out,” you laugh. “Even if your research _has_ been sorely lacking, Sans. Avoiding things is not an acceptable solution w#en i7 c0me$ to 7h3 exl°1ora7!on 0f ++ 7!*3l!*3$ + §aa|\|$...°..+++”

Your voice loses itself in a static scramble as he becomes aware of the fact that he’s dreaming. He’s always been an intermittently lucid dreamer who ever so often comes to a sense of awareness amidst the chaotic nightly jumble of his usually ordered thoughts, without translating awareness into a capability of control or the ability to stop the madness and wake up. 

And so, all he can do when your face melts into viscous darkness is watch. 

Your skin distorts and falls in blackening globs until all that remains is something smooth and white and broken that he can’t describe despite the fact that it’s straight in front of him. He feels oddly buoyant and there’s a pulsing light radiating on a frequency just a smidge higher than the regular ultraviolet somewhere in his peripheral vision. 

Sans is absolutely sure that this is nothing but a very odd dream, despite being equally sure that this had at some point happened. 

He’s too shaken to marvel at the schrödinger-esque nature of his feelings.

“$4][\\\\][§ !+§ /V{}7 `/()\\_\|2 |#@(_)1+++++”

The darkness overtakes everything. 

Waking up feels like rising from water, a half-aborted drowning that leaves him uncomfortably short of breath. 

He blinks into the darkness of the room and instinctively turns his head until Papyrus in his race car bed comes into view, the slow rise and fall of his brother’s sleeping breath the touchstone that grounds him back into reality. 

Papyrus is alive. 

Sans is alive. 

They are on the surface.

Only then does he notice that tonight, his dreams did not involve Papyrus’ death at all, or any of the other things he tends to dream about. Frisk had not made an appearance, nor had the horrifying awakening on his dingy mattress to a chilly room with the low light all-encompassing in such a way that he knew he was back in the Underground, a thing that had never happened while he was actually awake because he _never noticed_. 

Instead, he dreamed of you. 

Welp. 

He’s not really sure what to think of that, except for the knowledge that Alphys must never know because he can imagine, in vivid clarity, what she would do with that information. 

Briefly, his eye sockets narrow as he almost remembers something else he dreamed about - but no. There hadn’t been anything else. Just you. 

Sans heaves himself off his mattress and pops out of the room, the brief dip into and out of an altered quantum state in the magical void between reality habitual even while his thoughts are still hazy with the clinging remnants of sleep. When he reappears in the living room he finds it empty. 

Good. 

He should not hope to find you awake here. 

He did anyway.

Another shortcut brings him onto the couch of the garage lab where he stays until the earth has spun far enough on its own axis to transform night into morning and he can get up again to tackle the day and welcome some new interns. Or whatever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Nightmares, body horror


	9. A good Monster is hard to find [Asgore]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asgore plants some flowers and thinks.

When the talk about security measures is over - a talk that he has little to add to that he has not already suggested, and that he knows Toriel would prefer him to stay out of since children are involved - Asgore leaves the table to pursue a hobby just like everyone else. It is Sunday, a day that humans have marked for relaxation, enjoyment and reflection, and he intends to make use of it.

Time spent on leisurely activities is important. He himself makes sure to encourage his subjects and his employees and his friends alike to pause in their work every now and then. It is far too easy to spend too much time on work. There is much to do and new problems and tasks that require solutions and attention follow faster than they can be dealt with, sometimes. If they are all not careful, they will be buried under all the work, and they would end up stressed and tired and unhappy. He wishes for his friends and his people to be happy. 

He wishes to be a good king.

A good friend. 

He is neither. 

His room is small, and there is little in it. His bed. His cupboard. Several of his beloved golden flowers. (Memories that never fade.) Curtains of soft, white cloth frame his windows, and they are quickly drawn so he can change his clothes in privacy. It is a relief for him to be in simpler gowns, something loose and informal that does not suffer from a little dirt. It allows him the refreshing fantasy that he is no king, only Asgore, a humble gardener with no duties and no power. (No crushing expectations and no guilt.) It is perhaps a little silly, but nobody knows about his private fantasies. They merely know that he enjoys gardening. He does enjoy gardening. His tools are kept at the foot of his cupboard and he carries them out together with the seeds you had presented him as a gift so long ago now. Months ago now. 

He regards them fondly, doubts you understand how much the gesture means to him, that a human would think to purchase him a gift, something small and with little effort, but exactly matching his tastes and interests. You have probably already forgotten it. A shame, that he has not been able to make use of it earlier. 

Leaving the house, he finds himself under a sky of softest blue, rounded clouds spread sparsely across it like sheep on a meadow. The sun warms his fur and a breeze rustles his beard. 

It’s a beautiful day outside. 

He gets to work. 

The earth had not yet been prepared for flowers, but he had asked for something to enrich the it with, and had been presented with several small packages of special soil to use. They are not small to humans, of course. But they are to him. Most things are small to him.

Humans are small. 

(So small sometimes.)

(Tiny.)

He opens one of those packages now and begins mixing the fertile soil with the earth in the front yard of the house, along the stone path, careful not to disturb the earthworms and other creatures that live there. 

A monster passes by on the street in front of his house, waving at him with a happy smile. He returns the gesture. The sight of his people under a wide a blue sky, enjoying a small measure of freedom, fills him with peace. It is not true freedom yet, but they have regained the sky, and perhaps they will be able to regain the rest, if everything continues to go well. 

Seeds are pressed into the strip of darker earth he has created, a fingertip deep, and covered lightly with earth so they will be able to grow towards the light as soon as they are ready. Delicate work, the flower seeds are such little things… but that has never bothered him. 

(He had always been good at being careful with things that were fragile and small.)

(Always been good at being gentle.)

(Until he wasn’t.)

Asgore waters the newly planted flowers, not noticing the time as it passes. He does not give too much or too little. Thousands of years of experience lead him through the actions, his limbs moving on their own while his thoughts are far away. 

Dolores and you did not fear him.

It is unexpected and wonderful, how easy and natural that acceptance had been. It had almost been enough to make him hope, but of course he is not foolish enough to hope. He has seen your horror at his mention of what happened during the war, souls taken and absorbed by monsters who had been desperate. He is sure that you understand the necessity, and he does not begrudge you your emotions. They are your right. He can only trust in your ability to see the necessity for what it had been. You and Dolores had already demonstrated so much more acceptance than he had come to expect of humans. 

It was always astonishing, that with all their crimes and all their cruelty, there would always be those humans who would be so forgiving. Of course, the absolute forgiveness had been the one demonstrated by Frisk… A singular act of mercy so great that he is unable to wrap his mind around it. 

No, he does not hope. 

A miracle only happens once, and Frisk had been his. 

One moment of forgiveness.

That is all he can really ask for. It would be foolish to expect it again. Foolish to even allow himself that hope. He can never reveal himself fully, because he knows there will be no return from that. 

(He suspects there might be ways to return.) 

(But he will not ask Frisk.) 

(Frisk has already given so much. Keeps giving so much.)

(He has dreamt of killing them countless times, despite never having fought them thanks to Toriel’s intervention.)

(He has read Alphys’ studies on Determination.)

(He can guess what must have happened.)

If you or Dolores ever found out about his actions, he is sure that would be the end. Even your kindness can only stretch so far. Even Dolores’ integrity can only defend his morals for so long. 

The systematic murder of human children, of the most vulnerable, that would break the bridges they have all been building with the people who had voluntarily chosen to share their house and their lives. The fact that he and his had attacked and tried to kill Frisk, whom you have accepted into your custody, to the point where you seem to share the parental role with his wife. There are no apologies for what happened. Explanations perhaps, but those lose their worth after a certain point. If you knew, if Dolores knew, if humans knew... He would deserve whatever punishment would follow, but his friends and his people would not. 

And it was always first about his people. 

Asgore’s hands still on the soil. 

That is a lie. 

_The_ Decision had been made of rage, not altruism. It had ended up saving his people, perhaps, thanks to Frisk’s help… but it had not been made to save anyone. It had been made with the desire to destroy and kill. This desire had been fulfilled, and there is nothing in his considerably long life that he regrets more. There is nothing else he had ever done that had been as despicable. And from a selfish perspective, nothing else had taken so much from him and left him trying to fix his mistakes for so long. He is still trying to fix them. Maybe he is even getting closer, now. 

Monsters are finally free, and they are making faster progress than he thought possible. If things continue at this speed, maybe the day when monsters and humans unite as one people, with one government and one country, is not so far away. And then he can rest. Lay down his crown and shed his cloak one final time, and be free of it all. 

He does not know what he will do then. 

(Leave.)

His hands resume their movements, mixing more soil under the earth along the pavement. Rows of flowers will line the pavement and the path leading to it from the house, and the rest of the earth in the front yard will be filled with grass, and perhaps a bench or two to sit on, so monsters can come and rest here if they wish. It will be inviting and peaceful.

Grass, and golden flowers. 

Later, he will have to make the trip back up the mountain to his old castle, so he can care for the flowers in his throne room, and make sure that his son’s grave will not be left to wither or overgrow. Perhaps he can take some of these new flowers there and plant them next to the golden ones… would Asriel have liked the addition? He feels sure that his son would have, with how rare flowers had been in the Underground during his lifetime. Asriel had never seen the golden flowers bloom whose seeds he had brought back after the only time he had seen the surface. 

(It was not fair, that the first time his gentle son had seen the sky had ended up being a time cruelty that ended with his death.)

(He had only been a child.)

(But of course he has taken children from their parents, too.)

(He hates himself.)

Yes, he thinks this is a good idea, small additions to the place where Asriel’s dust had been spread. 

It might have been nice to ask Toriel what she thinks. For so long, it had only been him taking care of the grave while she was away. Even though, as Asriel’s mother, she should have had just as much input as to what happened to the final resting place of their child. Just as he should have been able to visit and tend to the place where their other, human child was buried… But speaking to Toriel about these matters is difficult. Of course he understands her anger and her refusal to allow him any decisions regarding children. 

He has no right.

But he would have liked to visit the grave of his other child he had lost that fateful night hundreds of years ago, and he would have liked for Toriel to make decisions regarding Asriel’s grave. 

He would have liked for things to be different. 

But his son is dead and Toriel has clarified that she does not wish even the smallest bit of reconnection between them, and he is respecting her wishes. She has agreed to be the queen again (not his queen, just the queen) and she is here in this house with him, sharing his living space and speaking with him when truly important matters require it. 

She may not trust him, but she is here, and that is already so much more than he dared to hope for, so much more than he deserves.


	10. The not quite lost Art of keeping a Secret [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is part of a double update! Please read [Chapter 42](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/21135755) of These are our Days first, or this one will make less sense. 
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr](http://trashcandisaster.tumblr.com/)

When the door slams shut and you’ve left the house, silence reigns in a collective drawing of breath before the inevitable. 

“Oh my gosh!” Alphys squeaks. “I d-didn’t expect that at all!”

“Yeah, me neither,” Dolores agrees, sounding like she’s doing some eye narrowing. 

Sans has a feeling they’re both very deliberately not looking at him, just as he's very deliberately not checking if they are. Wow. Dolores too, huh? He wonders where the two of them have hidden the shipping chart, because he sure as hell knows that Alphys must have made one just on principle, and if she dragged Dolores into this mess then surely that shipping wall has been shared. 

“Why not?” Undyne demands to know. “Good for her! Do you think she’ll go on a romantic date with him soon?”

“Nooo!” The kid says. They still sound as if they aren’t entirely on board with your current choice of evening entertainment. “Why did she suddenly decide to go on a platonic date anyway?” 

“whoa there kiddo, it's not as if you haven't platonically dated every single person in this room save maybe asgore,” Sans points out. “and i’m saying maybe because i wouldn’t be surprised if you made up for that in the meantime.”

“He’s got you, shrimp,” Undyne cackles.

“No! I mean, yeah, but - “

“Undyne, please don’t turn your back on the sauce while it’s cooking, it’s beginning to boil over,” Toriel chides. “Frisk, my child, please stop criticising her decisions. She can go on a date with whomever she wishes to. Come, why don’t you help set the table?”

Frisk actually grumbles a little bit in an uncharacteristic show of actual childish dislike of chores, but then they get up and noisily start to take plates and cutlery out of the cabinets.

“ARE YOU SURE THE POTATOES NEED TO COOK FOR SO LONG? THEY LOOK SO SOFT!”

“Yes, I am very sure,” Toriel states with conviction, directing Papyrus to the correct spices for the dish.

“S-so… what d-do you think?” Alphys asks him quietly.

“huh?” 

“Th-the date!” Alphys sounds frustrated, but feigning to be obtuse is an absolute necessity if he wants to prevent the madness before it starts. Which he does. He’s not up for this madness any more now than he had been the first time he’d worked with Alphys. 

“electro swing party sounds cool, i guess,” he says with a shrug.

“...r-right…” Alphys seems to be giving up by now, his attitude taking effect and her own strength of will faltering easily in the face of his dismissive coolness. 

“She did look really good in that dress though,” Dolores muses. 

“Sh-she did!”

“look, i know what you’re doing,” Sans tells the two of them. “and you can stop.”

“I’m just stating my opinions,” Dolores insists. She sounds more serious now, but Sans doesn’t believe her. Contextual cues stack the evidence against her.

“oh yeah? how’s your spider situation going, anyway?” He whispers to her in an obvious attempt of exacting revenge by way of turning the tables, keeping half of his attention focused on the food discussion in the background to make sure his brother doesn’t hear in case it gets to something intimate. Or Toriel, because she probably would freak out that Frisk might hear. He supposes it would be better if the kid doesn’t hear that, actually, he’s not a complete ass. 

“Oh, really good. She recently invited me for dinner, and then we ate out ” Dolores says, giving him a wide and shark-like grin that wouldn’t look out of place on Undyne with a self-confidence that he finds outrageously inacceptable. 

So Dolores doesn’t falter as he hoped, and yeah, maybe it was silly to hope she would in the first place, Dolores has a track record for being singularly unflappable, he’s not used to that, he’s used to being the chill one, the one who makes others _lose_ their chill and Dolores doesn’t comply. This is a new thing for him. A perturbation in the current system. He needs to amend that.

Does he press for details? He so does press for details. He has a reputation to maintain.

“...so you had a dinner date. and then?” 

Dolores is barely holding back laughter. Sans looks at her in incomprehension, and then Alphys squeaks and snorts and he doesn’t get it and then Dolores makes this v-shape with two of her fingers - 

And _then_ it occurs to him, slow-motion style.

Oh. 

_Oh_.

“You’re blushing,” Dolores tells him, in a way that screams smugness at him. “That’s understandable. It was an extremely good pun, if I do say so myself; I’d be flustered too if I were you.”

As if she doesn’t know that’s not the reason for his reaction. As fucking if, what the fuck, what the fuck Dolores, what the fuck Muffet, what the _fuck_.

Sans really wishes that the part of his mind that’s responsible for verbal replies would do him a solid here, but what Dolores just said has metaphorically crashed his thoughts against a brick wall, and nothing seems to be ready to emerge from the resulting detritus. As it is, the only thing that manages to squeeze past the confines of his half-opened mandible is a strangled sound that gives the impression of something having recently died there. 

He’s never considered himself a prude. He’d still say he isn’t. 

But in his gradual understanding of what exactly Dolores means, he remembers magazines smuggled out of the dump when he was fifteen, a little bit too young for such things and, as most teenagers seem to be, a little bit too interested in spite of that. And he remembers reading about what humans might mean when they talk about _eating out_ and he links that to Dolores’ fingers, spread in a manner suggestive of certain parts of the female human anatomy, and that leaves him to come to the conclusion that Dolores and Muffet had engaged in activities that very decidedly _did not_ involve the soul in any capacity whatsoever and that’s just the thing about dating humans, isn’t it. He’s maybe, a little bit, hardly at all really, but maybe just a little bit losing his composure in response to that. 

Sans turns to Alphys.

He’s not entirely sure what exactly he’s looking for here, maybe a partner to lose his head with, a little bit of moral support perhaps, a sign that he’s not the only one getting into a tizzy over the idea of soulless sex.

Alphys is typing away on her cellphone in the way a person who needs to appear calm and collected while being nothing of the sort does; he isn’t buying it, he isn’t buying it at all and not just because the colour of her face is definitely at the longer-wavelengths end of the spectrum of visible light. 

“D-don’t look at me,” she stutters out as cool as a monster with self-confidence issues trying to be as cool as a cucumber in the face of the kinkiest of kinks can possibly be. So, not very cool at the end of the day. “I-I already k-knew about this, o-obviously. We’re c-close friends!”

“What do you know?” Frisk asks, seemingly having popped into existence out of nowhere at the couch next to his feet while his upper half was turned towards Alphys. 

Sans nearly throws his laptop at the ceiling in shock, but catches himself before the basic fight-or-flight response becomes too evident on his features. He hates it when the anomaly sneaks up on him like this, it reminds him too much of what they can do, how powerful they are, of breaking all the laws of thermodynamics and a few others too, like causality for example. On a macro scale.

“N-nothing!” Alphys squeaks, not able to maintain her not-quite-cool attitude about deviant sexual practises in the face of a preteen child. 

“Why’s Sans blushing so hard?” They demand to know, their intense mahogany eyes fixed straight on his face in obvious awe. 

Fucking hell. 

“I told him an adult joke,” Dolores explains, smugness still pouring out of each and every one of her human pores. “And it was a good one.”

Frisk studies his face for a second longer while he goes back to browsing on his laptop, telling himself that this is fine, so he has lost his chill for once, lost this particular battle of wills, okay, it’s fine, he can cope. 

“Wow,” they finally say. He thinks they’ve joined Dolores in grinning like a maniac; he doesn’t move his eyes to confirm this theory. “That’s awesome!” 

“eh,” he replies. 

He’s definitely going back to his browsing he thinks as he hears the three of them snicker, he has more important things to worry about than the fact that at least half of his housemates are actively shipping him with another housemate of his. 

Friend. 

You and him are long past calling each other just housemates. 

Sans still sometimes doesn’t entirely understand what exactly prompted him to become so close to you in the first place, it didn’t seem out of the ordinary while it happened but in retrospect it feels out of character for him and he doesn’t like that; he especially doesn’t like that because he isn’t sure if it isn’t the result of some sort of manipulation by a certain anomaly even if he hasn’t directly noticed Frisk doing anything of the sort. 

But then he never notices anything they do that’s out of the ordinary, does he. 

The point that he’s lost track of slightly is that he was in the middle of doing more important things before he had been interrupted by your departure and the ensuing prompting at his opinion on your dating choices. He had been trying to read up on the human circulatory system, trying to get used to the idea that it wasn’t actually as private as he can’t help but see it as, trying to adapt his own response to your pulse to your assurance that it really wasn’t all that private, because if pulses and blood and all of that are important parts of human medicine, then he can see why you would be so insistent about that. He had _also_ been trying to figure out your behaviour surrounding that particular explanation.

He’s concerned. 

He’s mildly concerned. 

Sans is mildly concerned about your worrying tendency to space out and freeze and not being able to entirely continue the flow of conversation every now and then and the way you’ve started to sometimes talk in circles around certain topics and choose your words with utmost care in a way he immediately recognises because it reminds him of himself.

And by mildly, he means extremely. 

The thing is, Sans understands the necessity of keeping certain secrets. He _knows_ why it’s not a good thing to share some of what went down Underground just yet, he _knows_ there’s politics to consider and the fate of his entire species, and even he is not enough of a nihilist to take that lightly. So he’s definitely very understanding if you feel the need to keep a few secrets of your own, or for your species, that’s fair, that’s understandable, that’s entirely reasonable and wouldn’t concern him, but. 

It’s not about politics and the fate of monsterkind or humankind, is it? 

_You_ keep doing that in regards to other things. 

Like being alone. Like being alone with him. Like yesterday when he had tried to explain his deal with your pulse and the thing with the blood to you and - 

And okay, maybe he’s been thinking a lot about your pulse ever since the topic came up, and maybe he’s had a few dreams about it, and maybe he sometimes gets distracted by the memories of touching it at inopportune moments, of feeling your heart beating under his phalanges, of watching from up close the blood that rushed into a little tube through the needle that you had allowed that doctor to push into you, of your face when you understood what he equated your pulse with, of you and him looking into space, not looking at each other, trapped by what is, in all likelihood, nearly identical emotional dread, of the steady, steady movement as _the primary thing that keeps you alive pressed itself warm and strong and vibrant up against his bones_ \- 

But it’s fine. It’s all fine; he’s over it. 

He’s over it. 

He’s _over_ it. 

He -

Fuck.


	11. Welcome Home to Ebott [All]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a look at Ebott and the gang's house!
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr](http://trashcandisaster.tumblr.com/)

(There would be more houses and streets in the fields that are empty, I just didn't draw them all in. Please imagine them.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion: Never let me be an architect or a city planner lol


	12. Learning to Lick It [Muffet]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the new rating and remember that additional warnings are in the bottom notes should you need them :)

Mettaton's hotel has, if anything, become even more shiny now that he has opened a branch on the surface. MTT resort has improved insofar as that the water now stays inside the fountains where it belongs, and it is by now possible to find furniture and food items that are not imprinted with his face. 

But the glittery atmosphere has stayed.

The entire foyer is gleaming, the floor is waxed to such a perfect shine that it can be used as a mirror, there are crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and the receptionist’s desk has been coated in gold. 

Knowing Mettaton, it might even be real. 

How intriguing...

“One of the Karaoke rooms, please. Booked under Ortega.”

Muffet watches as the receptionist gives Dolores a polite nod, checks the reservation and then hands her a key with one of her smaller hands on the sides before forming a thumbs up with the large fingers on her head. 

“Thank you.”

The two of them make their way to the elevator and ride up two stories in anticipatory silence. They find the room on the left corridor, number 57, and Dolores opens it to let them in before closing and locking the door behind them. 

Dolores takes in the room. 

“Karaoke, hm?”

“Ahuhuhu. He had to call it something, dearie,” Muffet replies with a small wink, using only one of her left eyes. 

Dolores snorts, clearly amused at the not so subtle misdirection. 

“Soundproofed and dominated by the biggest bed I've ever seen in my entire life. Sure. Karaoke. I guess you could say people come here to sing.” She stares at the massive bed in the middle of the room and then groans quietly, hiding her face in her hands. 

Muffet isn't so shy in showing her amusement. 

“I see living in one house with _that_ skeleton does have an effect on you after all,” she giggles. 

“I swear, it's some sort of plague,” Dolores mumbles.

Muffet strides forwards, closes the curtains and then moves over to the bed and takes her shoes off, delicately putting them aside before taking a seat on the plush surface. She leans back on two of her hands, folds another pair daintily in her lap, and uses the last pair to start loosening the bows in her hair. 

“Let us concentrate on more pleasurable matters then, if you do not like the topic,” Muffet suggests, her smile growing wider and more playful. 

Dolores peeks out between her fingers and, upon apparently deciding she likes the view, drops her appendages to come and join her. 

Much better.

“So you want to go for it?”

Muffet nods. 

“If I feel I don't like it, I can still stop. But I'm too curious to stop before even trying,” she explains. 

Dolores studies her face and brings a hand up to stroke her fingers over the smooth surface of Muffet’s cheek. Muffet wonders what that feels like for her. Human skin is different from the magical chitin that covers her own body. 

“Okay. Just making sure.”

Muffet continues to shed one layer of clothing after the other. She appreciates Dolores’ concern for her comfort, but it is simply not necessary. She is not a young spiderling fresh out of its egg. She has tried some things during her time, and while she has not had sex with a human yet - obviously - she does feel that she is ready for the experience. 

Dolores follows when it becomes clear that Muffet has no intentions of stopping yet. And why would she? They went through all the trouble to arrange this. They’ve talked about it. They agreed on what they want to try and what not. And Muffet trusts Dolores to stop, in case it does get too much after all. Not that she really expects that to happen. 

Right now she feels rather more intrigued than overwhelmed. 

Human anatomy is interesting. 

Of course she has seen some pictures in her time, but there’s a difference between seeing a flat printing and the real thing, in the flesh, now that Dolores has reached a state of complete nudity. 

In return, Dolores seems to be just as fascinated by Muffet. 

“Your waist is so small,” she muses, looking at the dramatic flare between Muffet’s upper and lower body, similar to and yet not entirely the same as the segmentation of a spider body. 

At the same time, Dolores keeps staring at her upper chest and lower abdominal region. The places where she has interesting fleshy constructs that Muffet entirely lacks. 

“Can I - “

Muffet takes Dolores hand and places it on the flat plane of her chest and watches with amusement as Dolores feels around with a nonplussed expression on her angular face. It tickles a little, in a rather pleasant way. 

“There is nothing down either,” Muffet chuckles, leaning back on two of her hands and spreading her legs so Dolores can see. The latter actually leans forward and Muffet can feel her fingers trail over the equally flat plane of chitin-like skin there, dipping between her legs and further back, exploring gently. Muffet already knows what comes next, but she patiently allows Dolores to ask the question anyway. As every spider knows, patience will always be rewarded in the end.

“What are those?”

“Spinnerets,” Muffet explains. “I use them to spin my spider silk.”

“Huh,” Dolores says. 

Muffet watches her carefully, but just as Dolores never seems to be bothered by the many relatives populating Muffet’s bakery, the reveal of these distinctively spider-like organs doesn't seem to faze her. 

“I would recommend not touching them,” Muffet says when she feels Dolores’ fingers approaching. “Your fingers might end up sticky.”

“No touching of the spinnerets. Understood. Anything else I shouldn't touch?”

Muffet lifts a finger and taps it against her lips, thinking about it. 

“I would prefer to touch _you_ first,” she finally says, “to see your reaction and understand what to prepare myself for.”

Muffet can see the brief moment where Dolores thinks about it - Dolores _knows_ how this works and Muffet does not and from that point of view it would make so much more sense for Dolores to start. But Dolores continues to respect Muffet’s wishes. 

“Alright.” 

And with that simple word Muffet watches her as she leans back in a clear invitation to come and explore, entirely willing to let Muffet do as she wishes. 

Muffet would be lying if she said she didn't like seeing that, the trust in allowing her to take the lead. 

What she likes even more is finally getting the chance to some exploring of her own. 

Images _really_ can't compare to the true thing. 

Muffet gently places two of her hands on the mounds of flesh covering Dolores’ chest, using the other four to lean on for now, and is astounded by how soft they are, how delicate the skin is there. They are warm and have a nice weight to them, she decides as she gently rolls them around and squeezes them a little. 

Dolores looks very pleased with that development. 

What about the little nubs on the top of them?

They feel even softer, impossibly, although they begin to harden as Muffet plays with them. Not hard per say, no, but… stiffening. Yes. Fascinating. 

Humans may not be able to do slight alterations on their bodies with magic, but this almost feels as if it comes close. 

Dolores sighs quietly.

Muffet repeats the motion and smiles in satisfaction when the sound repeats. Experience, while certainly useful, is not strictly necessary it would seem. What if she tries using her mouth?

It's not a thought that would have come to her all by herself, but at this point she and Dolores have had enough time together to discover some of the differences between them and so Muffet knows that Dolores would probably enjoy it. 

Leaning forward and pushing past the natural disinclination towards this act, Muffet presses gentle kisses against the stiffened nub of flesh before taking it into her mouth, rolling her tongue against it and sucking carefully. Two of her eyes are focused on this task while the other three keep Dolores’ face in view, watching for any sign of discomfort. 

There is none. 

Only pleasure, a half opened mouth and a first, low moan. 

Muffet feels her lips curl into a smile around the flesh in her mouth. She decides to add two more of her hands into the mix and strokes her fingers over the soft flesh of Dolores’ belly, relishing in the feeling. She thinks about using the last pair below the belly like this but… no, she wants to see what she’s doing there. Her mouth leaves Dolores’ breast with a quiet pop, the slick sheen of her spit causing the flesh to shine in the dim half-light. That looks nice, actually. Very nice. 

It reminds Muffet of the sweet first glaze on a pastry before the sugar hardens and becomes white.

Below her, Dolores is beginning to look amused at Muffet’s thoughtful expression. 

“You look like you're watching prey in a net,” Dolores laughs, having seen her hunt insects for her beloved pet before.

“I _am_ a spider, dearie,” Muffet giggles. “I could arrange for you to be entrapped in my net.”

She reaches down to one of her spinnerets and pulls her hand back with a thick string of spider silk to make her point, grinning at Dolores all the while. 

She expects it to be a good joke. 

She did not expect Dolores to look intrigued. 

“Would you like that?” Her human girlfriend asks, voice lowered and a heated look in her eyes. 

Muffet isn't prepared for that at all and her bafflement must have shown on her face, for Dolores is the one giggling quietly now. 

“You would let me?” Muffet asks, needing to make sure. 

“Of course.” Dolores sounds confident and still a bit amused, but also warm, trusting and affectionate in a way she rarely does openly. “Like you said, if I don’t like it I can just tell you to stop.”

Muffet can almost feel her soul tremble in her chest. 

No. 

She leans forwards and brushes a kiss against Dolores’ lips, a first and a second and a third, gentle and soft. Then she slips her tongue into Dolores’ mouth, shuddering still at the strangeness of it and yet enjoying it, and knowing that Dolores enjoys it even more. 

“I did not expect that,” Muffet admits when she leans back, lengthening the thread of spidersilk and bringing it up to Dolores’ wrists. 

“Why not?” 

Because being _vulnerable_ in such a way is more than Muffet thought Dolores was ready for, given that she had said she didn't want to involve her soul yet. Because Muffet can hate it all she wants, she still knows that few monsters and even fewer humans would be comfortable with being completely at the mercy of a spider. 

But she doesn't want to bring this up and sour the mood.

She is so happy Dolores is different. 

“I simply didn't,” Muffet therefore purrs, wrapping the spidersilk gently but firmly around Dolores’ wrists, severing the thread from her spinnerets and tying the end to the curled iron of the bedframe. 

It is a very convenient bedframe. 

Mettaton was oh so thoughtful in picking the furniture for his ‘karaoke room’.

Dolores gives her new bindings and experimental tug, nodding at Muffet when she apparently finds them comfortable. Muffet has sat up in the meantime, looking down at the woman beneath her with appreciation and a whole lot more emotion than she thought she would. Dolores had just let her do it, just like that, is now waiting patiently for Muffet to do _whatever she wants to her…_

Oh, it is so difficult to keep her soul inside her chest, to not bring Dolores’ soul out and coo over it, to stop herself from bringing fingers to those fragile constructs of light and energy that make up the core of who they are. The intimacy of the moment practically screams for it, but she can't, she promised Dolores she wouldn't. 

She decides to finish exploring the other part of Dolores’ body instead, the other piece of her that is unfamiliar to Muffet. 

Nestled between Dolores’ legs is a soft shape like fleshy lips, duplicated, with a tuft of hair on top. This she has only seen on medical drawings in textbooks. She knows the theory of it, but not much else. Muffet bends her head forwards to get a closer look, noting with interest that there is already a wetness here that reminds her of the wetness she left behind on Dolores’ breast, even though Muffet hasn't licked anything here yet. 

Her breath ghosts over Dolores skin and causes a shudder. Of course she had heard this is a sensitive organ, but the reaction still surprises Muffet. She carefully extends a finger and trails it over the flesh, trailing the outline to get a feeling for it. Another small moan tells her the gentle approach is much appreciated. She feels she can do this. 

Spreading the glistening inner lips, she finds herself confronted with the reality of human biology instead of colourful textbook diagrams; a small nub at the top, a tiny hole and a slightly bigger opening following below that. She trails her finger over these too. The nub gets her a low hiss, the lowermost opening, where the wetness seems to be coming from, a breathy ‘yes’.

Well, that's a clear encouragement. 

Thinking briefly about the optimal arrangement, she uses the hands of her middle sets of arms to explore the opening. The lower two are used to grab the flesh of one of Dolores’ leg each to help spread them, while the upper ones reach up to continue caressing Dolores’ breasts. 

That gets her a louder moan. 

Muffet giggles quietly. It's a bit of a funny noise, really, one that's rarely heard by monsters even in the bedroom. She wants to hear more if it though, since it means Dolores is enjoying herself. 

The fingers of her left middle hand pet the tuft of hair on top of Dolores’ vulva while the index finger of Muffet’s right middle hand carefully presses against the wet opening. She can push her finger in, she thinks, from what she's read it's meant to work that way. Dolores doesn't protest when she eases the very tip of her finger in, so she slowly goes deeper. It's slick and velvety and soft like any intimate part of human anatomy seems to be. It's a strange feeling, on the whole, it almost feels as if Dolores is sucking Muffet’s finger inside of her. Stroking the walls on the inside Muffet can hear Dolores’ breath hitch and another moan, and so she happily continues.

Exploring Dolores like this is a lot of fun, she has to admit, although she still yearns to take a look at Dolores’ soul. Oh well. Another time, hopefully.

She gets a steady rhythm going without Dolores saying anything, her human lover apparently happy to let her explore without any verbal directions. Yet another show of trust. Muffet honours it by listening carefully whenever Dolores makes a particularly happy sounding noise, repeating those motions until what she does has Dolores emit a steady stream of moans and gasps and whispered praise and encouragements, sweeter than anything else that ever comes out of her mouth. It's nice. Still funny to listen to, but nice. She likes this, Muffet decides, pressing a kiss on the little nub on top of the whole arrangement.

Suddenly, Dolores tenses.

Muffet stops moving entirely in surprise, worrying if she made a mistake after all, but the high pitched moan that escapes Dolores doesn't sound painful or negative in any other way. The walls inside of Dolores are rhythmically contracting. 

Mystifying. 

“Are you alright?” Muffet asks carefully. 

“Yeah,” Dolores sighs, voice deep and thick and sweet like wild honey, a treat to be savoured. 

“Was that your climax?” Muffet wants to know, her curiosity peaking now that she has a verbal confirmation that Dolores isn’t hurt. 

“Uh-huh,” Dolores murmurs, still in that languid, luxuriously pleasured voice.

Muffet carefully sits back up, taking a few moments to look down at Dolores and take in the results of her efforts. Dolores looks relaxed, slightly flushed, a little bit sweaty, and above all very happy. Muffet smiles to herself and gently pets Dolores’ breasts with the two hands she still has resting up there as Dolores just lays there and breathes, feeling pleased with herself that she managed the feat despite her relative lack of experience. She hadn't been sure if she could. 

“So,” Dolores says after a couple of minutes, apparently slowly recovering from the high she seems to have experienced, “does that look like something you'd like to try as well?”

Muffet thinks about that. Does she? Dolores did seem like she was enjoying herself tremendously, and Muffet still feels curious. 

Yes. 

She wants this.

“I will try,” she tells Dolores, who immediately lowers her eyes expectantly to the place between Muffet’s legs. Muffet tries not to giggle too loudly. 

Pushing her amusement aside, she concentrates her magic, letting her instincts do the work. She knows how this works in theory, although she has not tried it herself yet. Much like all the other things she’s trying today. Her magic concentrates and she feels it building, forming a soft mound on her chitin like flesh. She curiously lowers all five of her own eyes to take the shape in. 

It’s attached to her body and purple like the rest of her, but unlike her muted skin it glows with the tell-tale shimmer of magic, the transition between those two different visuals fuzzy and indistinct. She can feel it opening up into her - a very a strange feeling, her body suddenly having acquired an opening that wasn’t there before. She can also feel moisture collecting there already. When she compares it directly to the view of Dolores’ vulva in front of her though, it seems less defined, like a copy that didn’t manage to get all the details right.

“What does it feel like?” Dolores wants to know. 

“Unusual,” Muffet decides after a brief pause in which she needs to think about it. She can feel a faint blush rising to her face. It’s one thing to be in full view of human genitals and pleasure them, but quite another to conjure a set for herself. It’s just so blatant and lewd in comparison to a soul. 

Muffet gathers herself and tries her best to push past the sudden, and frankly unwelcome, bout of embarrassment on her side. It’s not strange for Dolores, so Muffet has no need to feel shame about this.

“Shall I unbind you then?” Muffet asks. 

“You could do that. Or you could just come up here and keep control,” Dolores replies evenly, although there is a certain twinkle in her eyes. Muffet actually needs a moment to understand what kind of position Dolores is suggesting here. As soon as she does though, she likes the idea. She likes control, she likes the idea that Dolores trusts her so much. 

And if she’s very honest with herself, she also just likes imagining what Dolores will look like half buried in Muffet’s newly conjured vagina. 

“Oh dearie, if you insist, I won’t say no,” Muffet says, regaining some confidence with that last thought. She crawls up on all six arms and her two legs, delighting in the fact that neither the number of limbs nor the fast pace of her movements seems to disturb Dolores at all, before sitting up again with her legs spread over Dolores’ face. The latter looks curious and covetous at the sight in front of her, her hands clenching around the threads of spidersilk holding her wrists in place. 

Muffet lowers herself carefully, not sure how close to Dolores’ mouth she should go in order to ensure that she won’t choke her. Using her many arms to support herself on the pillow and on the frame of the bed, she comes to a stop when she can feel the first slight touch of Dolores’ lips against her own conjured flesh, the warm breath ghosting over it. 

Oh, that is a strange feeling. 

Very strange. 

She isn’t sure she likes it for a second, and then Dolores begins to press soft kisses against her new sexual organ and Muffet’s mouth opens automatically in silent, swallowed gasp. 

“Okay?” Dolores murmurs from below her, gentle and supportive. 

“Yes, dearie,” Muffet assures her, absentmindedly, the words emerging breathier than she thought they would. 

What is her body doing? It’s the same kind of reaction Dolores had, but - 

All thoughts are lost; like a thread of spidersilk that snaps under stress after having been stretched too far leaving nothing behind, her mind empties at the sensation of Dolores sucking, licking on the outer, upper part of her vulva, that little nub that Muffet had kissed earlier on Dolores. 

Sounds fall out of her mouth that she has no ear for, lost completely in the sensation. 

Waves of heat and something not quite like pressure and a searing, tingling _pleasure_ roll through her, it’s indescribable, incomparable to anything else she knows, foreign and wild and desperately _good_ , she needs more of this, more, faster.

She doesn’t notice that she presses herself closer to Dolores’ mouth, doesn’t notice the way her voice pitches higher with each movement of Dolores’ lips and her own hips. She only notices the feeling, the physical sensations that sweep her away and leave her breathless, that prickle down from the top of her head through her back down to her feet until her head tilts back and her spine arches and her toes curl. 

Dolores’ tongue makes a brief excursion towards the opening that secretes an awful amount of sticky liquid and that feels so good too, stars, how can anything feel this good, it makes her soul tremble, she can feel it, she can’t let her soul out but she wants to because she feels _so so good_.

She doesn’t understand how it can just keep getting better. 

A broken cry accompanies the moment where she thinks that it’s too much, she has gone too far and the pleasure has overloaded her soul and now she has to die, turn to dust over a sensation so intense that she can’t name or describe it, everywhere at once, pulsing.

She collapses. 

Breathes. 

A muffled sound reaches her ears and she comes to the conclusion that maybe she isn’t dead after all, since she can still hear. 

She notices that she has collapsed onto Dolores’ face only when the latter begins to struggle and Muffet quickly moves aside so her girlfriend can breathe, removing the spidersilk too while she’s at it. Muffet wishes the movement was as elegant as she normally is, but all she manages is a barely effective twist of her hand to sever the silk before she flops onto her side and slithers down until she lies next to Dolores, staring at the ceiling. 

Her soul still trembles inside her, still wants to come out. 

All six of her hands are placed carefully on top of her chest, to keep it in. 

“Everything okay?” Dolores wants to know, carefully placing one of her own hands on top of the cluster of Muffet’s. 

“Yes,” she whispers. “I… this…” 

She has no words and Dolores laughs quietly.

“Well, that sounds good to me,” Dolores muses with a smirk.

“It was the most intense physical pleasure I have yet experienced,” Muffet finally admits.

Dolores looks rather smug at the admission, although she does try to suppress her grin a little now. 

“It was even somewhat intimate, I would say,” Muffet continues with a smug smile of her own, deciding to regain the upper hand as her whirling thoughts begin to settle. 

“Somewhat?”

Muffet giggles at the mildly offended tone before she leans towards Dolores.

“One of these days,” Muffet purrs into her lover’s ear, “you will show me your soul. And then _I_ will show you what _true_ intimacy feels like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: explicit smut, woman on woman sex, light bondage, spider anatomy


	13. Out here Chasing Stars [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally find out more about Sans' feelings.

Sans is most certainly asleep, and he has never been happier to be a lucid dreamer. He needs that sliver of awareness right now. He is dimly aware of the steady background thrum that is your heartbeat underlining the imagery his mind provides for his nightscape, a beat that changes the usual fare into something decidedly more pleasant to watch. 

Your heartbeat. 

As if the oscillation of your pulse against his distal phalanges is not enough as he tries to reconcile that for you, the vulnerable pathways of your blood are neither secret nor intimate, to be shared only with your beloved in moments of deepest revelation. Now there is so much more to it. Your body heat. The movements of your breath. How soft you are. Your smell. The flat of your palm on his skull. 

You're so _close_.

The sensations are inevitably soothing and he feels safe with you, but a small, nasty and dark part of him is making him anxious enough to hyperventilate because he's _fallen asleep on top of a human what the hell_. It's one thing for you to fall asleep during movie night only to end up on his ribs, and for him to stay so his brother won't be alone, but this is an entirely different category of sleeping around humans that he never thought he'd want to find himself in. It's only the fact that sleep has already overtaken him that prevents a breakdown of cataclysmic proportions at his own provocative idiocy. 

He doesn't want that part of himself, but it persists and marries the anxiety his dream self feels in spite of his own joy and peace, a cognitive dissonance that he, in defiance of all his intellectual prowess, is unable to resolve. 

All of that, the sound of your heart and the sensations that come with it and his own unwanted, impotent, unfocused fear battling with the peace and joy of the current situation, draws him back to a memory of another moment where your arms were around him and he was enveloped by everything that is you. 

Gravity tugged at his body, pressing _down_.

Gravity tugged at your body, pressing _up_.

A vast expanse of beautiful stars in front of him as your and his bodies curled into each other in their contrasting directional pulls. 

He had not strictly speaking heard your heartbeat back then when he pulled you and by extension himself up towards the night sky, not in the way he does now, but he hat felt it on your arms where you clung to him and on your chest where the back of his skull pressed against it. And he had already thought that was so much, something so desperately intimate that he felt it strike him in his soul. 

He allows himself to be lost in the dream for a moment, casting aside the anxiety he felt and feels, simply relishing the peace and beauty of that slow ascend into a wide open sky that for so long he thought he wouldn't ever see. It's one of his favourite memories, one he likes to revisit to feel a little joy every now and then despite all the worries that had coursed through his soul at that moment. He would love to sink deeper into this dream-memory, to lose himself in it and forget that he's asleep, to stop thinking and just enjoy it as if it was happening all over again. 

But his thoughts are in overdrive and won't allow him that illusion. 

He is aware and watches his dream self grapple with feelings that are similar yet different to the ones he feels now, his current version having long resolved these questions only to stumble over different ones.

Asking why.

Why had he allowed you to lift him that way?

As usual, he can neither influence nor control the actions of his dream self, but for once he does not want to. He merely watches passively as his own hand stretches out against the backdrop of the galaxy as it had unfurled before him, and takes a moment examining his past self thinking about his own motivations regarding the irrationally sentimental actions he had been recently performing.

His past self was full of doubt and fear.

Willingly allowing a human of all things to lift him up - 

He could have died. 

But no, of course not.

Then you would have died too. 

He now regards his own thoughts with obvious antipathy even more than he did then because he knows, he _knows_ you do not think like that, your easy concern and unending care nothing like the cold hatred and aggressiveness he's told himself to expect from your species. And yet he couldn't stop thinking that way, couldn't stop himself from thinking that he was making mistake after mistake and he should just stop.

Sans felt back then that he shouldn't even have started this, shouldn't have continued to seek you out, shouldn't have sought to soothe you and make you laugh when you felt low, shouldn't have shared the truth of his low HP with you which you otherwise never would have found out about because you could not _check_ , what had he been thinking, he should not have gauded you into making puns that only made you all the more endearing with the proud face you keep making afterwards, should not have taken off your shoes to help you fully into bed while you were drunk only to see and _touch_ your socks, stars above, should not have partnered up for monopoly only to announce a win together because he did not actually want to crush your happy smile by defeating you, should not have expressed his concern about blood leaving your body quite so openly, should not have had fun doing secret silly gravity experiments with you at night in a lab, should not have indulged his curiosity about your eyes and the way your strange human body works, should not have let you fall asleep on his ribs during movie night, should not have asked you about your preferences and your motivations, should not have indulged in inside jokes with you, should not have let you run your soft fingers over his bones so shortly after the two of you had met, should not have been so eager to know more about you and be around you, should not have tried to grow closer and closer and closer to you in _any_ way possible, should not have -

He should not have acted like a lovestruck teenage monster almost from the very moment he met you. 

No wonder the entire household is convinced that something must be happening here. 

It makes watching his past self negotiate the idea of _trying_ something of a difficult task, the exogenous appreciation of his current iteration clashing with the endogenous apprehension of the past iteration while having no effect the actions of his dream self.

Not that he would change the outcome if he could, of course. 

It's much too late for that. 

He was already, and had been for far too long, unreasonably invested in his colleague-housemate-best friend-crush-girlfriend, something that he now finds far easier to accept than he did back then.

Now he wants to know more about you and he wants you to know more about him, despite the immediate and irrepressible revulsion at wanting to _reveal_ himself, it's just not him and yet it's something he craves, his desires so frustratingly contrarian that he ends up with a headache in his own dream like the useless excuse for a monster he is.

His dream self is smiling at you, blinded by a heady rush of joy at seeing your face so full of hope and happiness at his words, knowing that you want to try this out just as much as he does, maybe even more and stars, what has he even done to deserve that? 

He has no idea. 

He's a _skeleton_ monster, he looks like a corpse, he would have thought that would preclude any interest from humans based on principle, but you don't seem to consider that a problem in any meaningful way. 

Although he's not fully sure what kind of interest it even is you have in him.

Romantic, yes, probably but surely not the one a human would consider regular - but then what else could it be?

You're confusing. 

He meant that when he said it, shortly before he fell asleep on you - before your softness and your warmth and your _heartbeat_ relaxed him enough to allow his consciousness to slip back into sleep after a bout of insomnia, something which rarely happens as it is. 

He doesn't know what you want from him and for the educated guesses he made he isn't sure how he would deal with trying to provide them. 

If you would actually want to touch his bones, or kiss, or… (or handcuffs. Stars, the handcuffs, he had been so confused when you mentioned those and then shocked when he understood what you meant and good heavens above, he can't think about that now) ...or _that_. How would he handle that? He can't even begin to imagine that you would want to participate in those kinds of activities with him.

Sans does know what _he_ wants though. 

A little bit too well, perhaps. 

Because when it had finally clicked in his mind just why the memory of your pulse wouldn't leave his thoughts, why he had recalled it and researched it and revered it almost to the point of obsession, he had immediately dropped all internal pretences about no longer linking pulse and soul as he was consumed by the single-minded desire to get _more_ of that. More intimacy, more knowledge of who you are and what drives you, more about your likes and dislikes, dreams and fears, the emotions that carry you through your life.

More of you. 

Of your deepest, truest, innermost self -

Sans watches your face through the eye lights of his dream self, still unable to do anything but what the dream dictates, unable to do anything but follow along and think, and wonders if the same had been true for you, if you had been having those kinds of thoughts or at least something similar during those moments when you and him had spent the rest of the night in joyous contemplation of the night sky. And maybe each other, a little bit. He had been too distracted to really read your face, trapped in a state of agitated indecision in the face of an invisible and intricately branching decision tree.

There are so many ways he could go from here, so many things that could happen. 

So many things that could go _wrong_.

If he made a mistake and set off a reaction that would lead you to act noticeably different around others, would it upset the careful peace that keeps them all here? 

Would Frisk reset if this timeline diverged too much from an established baseline?

_Is_ a relationship with you too much of a difference from an established baseline? 

He didn't know then and actually still doesn't know. 

_Can't_ know, can only track the bloom and death of branching lines of time on an old machine hidden in a Snowdin basement behind his old house, can only watch in tragically muted horror at the number of them that have been cut short and withered at some point sooner or later. That's all he can do. Nothing about the rows of numbers, describing branching and branching timelines in the abstract, tell him anything about what happened in those timelines. He can see the distortions, the irrational numbers where the anomaly entered, the repeating decimals where they loaded, and the clean cut represented by a division by zero where the timeline inevitably _ends_ when the anomaly resets. But he has no indication of what events prompted each of those or where in the chain of events the anomaly entered or left. Just numbers. Did they always begin at the same point? Always end at the same point? And what point would that be?

He could go and ask the anomaly for the reason why. 

Ask them what had made it necessary to kill an entire universe and all the people in it just so they could try again. 

And again. 

And again, and again, and again -

He does not. 

It would not matter, would not change the outcome, and he had already accepted his fate so long ago. 

Better then, to be happy in what small measure the universe allows him to be. 

And thus he had thrown himself into the idea of being with you with reckless abandon, accepting that it could all be over at any moment and he wouldn't even know, simply trying to take what he could get. 

He likes you, he loves you, he sees no sense in letting you go before he even tried to keep hold of you, which should be a foreign concept to him because he doesn’t do that, does he, but it just isn’t and he finds himself doing it anyway, clinging on in spite of everything.

For once in so long, he genuinely and truly cares, and that is something he's unwilling to just abandon based on his own fears. 

He hates thinking about those fears, about the anomaly and the resets and everything that comes with it. He hates it, and yet it keeps happening whenever he is tired or sleeping, whenever there is nothing to distract him from the existentially depressing truths he truly wishes he never found out about. 

The distress of it is something that he eventually shut away, in that moment that he’s currently dreaming of, in order to enjoy the rest of the night with you. But his current dreaming self seems incapable of doing just that, and instead starts slipping into a spiral of distress that he knows all too well. It leads to him twitching, groaning, to seeing the beautiful dream of a beautiful memory smudge into other, more disturbing visions, and then the state of lucid dreaming approaches something closer to wakefulness - 

A soft, warm hand strokes the back of his skull, the gentle press of flesh against his bones inevitably soothing. He nuzzles more tightly against your chest and relaxes when your heartbeat thrums slow and steady against his ear canal.

You’re here. 

Right now you’re here, embracing him, petting his skull, and you are warm and soft and you smell nice and he can hear your soothing, exciting heartbeat, and everything is peaceful and good. 

The rest… he can worry about the rest later. 

Yeah. 

That sounds like a really, really good idea.

Sans feels his own hands cling to your sides, although he doesn’t recall moving them, his mind retreating from almost wakefulness back into half-conscious lucid dreaming and from there into something deeper and blissfully forgetful. 

Wrapped up in your presence, he lets go, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	14. She who saw the Deep [Dolores]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ [CHAPTER 63](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/23902536) OF TAOD BEFORE READING THIS CHAPTER!!! SPOILER ALERT!!!

Dolores is two, sitting in a playpen made of fabric and soft netting on a beach, a parasol angled overhead to protect her from the sun. Her parents lay nearby, tanning, seven-year-old Sofía nestled between them. Dolores is bored. She has been prodding and tugging at a small tear in the netting for a while now, Toto the plush monkey and all her other toys forgotten behind her. Her stubby fingers manage to get a hold and with a tug, the netting comes loose. Dolores giggles, and looks over to her parents and sister who do not stir; inadvertently lulled to sleep by the heat, the sound of the waves, the cries of the seagulls. She crawls through the hole in her playpen and walks away with small but quick steps, giggling when the sand tickles her skin between her toes. Her chubby legs carry her towards the ocean where the water sparkles so prettily before her. A wooden dock reaches far into the waves and Dolores follows down its length, delighted by the slapping sound of her feet on the warm wood. 

She has a vague awareness of the fact that her parents would scold her if they knew that she had walked off alone and she hums to herself, “no, no, no, no” in the rhythm of her steps. She comes to a halt at the end of the dock and crouches down with a gurgling laughter. 

The water looks so pretty.

The light dances on it and reminds her of the hanging mobile above her bed, sparkling trinkets suspended from thin, barely visible threads. She reaches with her hands just like she does when she’s put to bed, and in her eagerness overbalances, falls forwards, falls towards the swirling mass of blue and seafoam green. 

Dolores crashes into the water flailing and shocked at how cold it is. Under the surface, the water doesn’t look as pretty and sparkling anymore. It’s dark, she can’t see very far, her eyes are burning, she can’t breathe, and she’s scared. An instinctual part of her brain causes her to move her arms and legs, but the motions aren’t right, she can’t keep herself steady and her clothes are waterlogged and drag her down. The visceral fear of death overwhelms her young mind. 

Below her, something moves. 

An eye opens, bigger than Dolores, bigger than her sister Sofía or her parents all put together. It is rimmed by spiny scales and belongs to a body that coils seemingly endlessly into the darkness. Tentacles emerge from the dark, moving towards her in a way that’s too fast and too fluid, and there’s too many of them. Dolores is too young to understand what she’s seeing, doesn’t have enough experience to properly handle this. She doesn’t know what this is and she doesn’t understand, and the existential terror that fills her is too much for her to handle. She screams and water fills her lungs. The tentacles coil around her, thick and glib, lengths of muscle pressing against her small body. She is thrust out of the salty water and back onto the dock, something warm and green and pushy flows into her, the tentacle squeezing her gently until she has vomited out all the water in her lungs. Then the appendage releases her and withdraws, sinking back into the water in a smooth motion. 

Dolores sits on the dock and stares at the water as the foaming waves calm, until it looks just as sparkly and pretty as before. She does not move, she does not scream, her mind still overloaded from fear and incomprehension, and the closeness of death. She sits there until hours later, when the sun has already dried her clothes again and she has gotten a sunburn. Until her parents find her, shouting and crying with worry, scooping her up and thanking god and the heavens that she didn’t fall into the water, that their baby is safe, berating themselves for not being more careful, for falling asleep, for not noticing the tear in the playpen. Only then does she begin to cry.

She does not speak for three weeks and thrashes violently when her parents try to lower her into her bubble bath, only calming down once the water has been cleared and she can see the bottom. She wakes up in the night crying from nightmares that she can’t yet tell her parents about. It fades, eventually, as the memories of her earliest years grow foggier, but something stays logged in her brain from that day, unrecognized and unnamed, the dread of having seen too much at far too young an age.

-

Dolores is seven, a child too earnest and too quiet for her age, and stands at the stairs to the cellar, her sister Sofía behind her, little Santiago crouched next to her legs. At age five, he’s clinging to his older sisters, following them everywhere. 

“I bet you’re too chicken to go down,” Sofía says, sneering. At twelve, she considers herself grown up and far too mature to hang with babies, like her sister and brother, but that doesn’t stop her from teasing them wherever she can. “I bet you can’t go down and stay there for five minutes.”

Dolores looks at the dark, gaping maw that is the unlit staircase. She feels fear crawling down her neck, at not being able to see, but she doesn’t want to give her sister the satisfaction. She takes a step forwards and then hesitates as the two conflicting desires battle it out inside of her. 

“There’s spiders down there, you know,” Sofía says gleefully. “Big ones.”

Dolores shrugs. She doesn’t mind spiders that much, there’s something oddly familiar about the way they move, more limbs than anyone is comfortable with at a pace that is too quick for the human eye. It’s stirring something inside of her, something like the smell of salty water, and feels almost comforting, in a way, despite the fact that their hairy, hard bodies are indeed a bit disgusting. But Dolores is seven and doesn’t have the words to articulate these feelings, and so she only says “I like spiders,” even though that’s not quite true. 

“Go on then! Prove it!”

Dolores knows that if she doesn’t her sister won’t let her live it down for ages. Even more importantly, she herself will not be able to let it go. She’s scared - and that means she has to do it. The step onto the staircase is quick and nervous and stiff. She climbs down into the darkness with her heart beating and feels cold, so cold, she’s not sure she can breathe. She reaches the bottom and stands there, quietly huffing. Something touches her bare foot and she yelps, stumbles and falls hard onto her back. It hurts. Sofía is laughing upstairs. 

“I knew it! Chicken!” The light flickers on and the two sisters stare at each other, one with malignant glee, the other with anger. Dolores spots the spider that crawled over her foot a little ways away, a black thing with thick legs, its entire body as long as the front part of her thumb. She moves quickly and manages to snatch it up, its many legs flitting to and fro in panic. 

“Ew!” Sofía is horrified and Dolores smiles. She sets the spider onto her arm and holds still while the little creature crawls over it quickly, leaving a prickle on her skin in its wake, moving onto her shoulder, her neck and chest, down the length of her body, down her legs, until it reaches the floor and scuttles quickly into a dark corner. Sofía is screaming, shuddering with disgust. Santiago looks at her in complete awe and Dolores feels powerful for the first time in her life.

-

Dolores is thirteen, and she hates herself. At her age, her sister had been the very image of youthful beauty, already showing gentle curves on her bust and hips, legs growing longer, figure slim and toned just like in the magazines thanks to rigorous workout. Dolores is the opposite, squat and square and flat as a board. She’s tried working out to lose weight, but instead she gained it, and thick muscles on top of that. She tries to wear a dress to compensate, but it looks awkward and bulky on her. She tries to wear jeans and frilly blouses, but they just make her feel fat. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. 

Her friends have crushes on the boys in class and talk excitedly about them, discussing each look they receive from the objects of their affection to the point of death. Dolores harbours tender feelings for a boy a year above her, but he flirts with a petite blonde girl from his own class, who is everything she’s not, small and slim and curvy and white and pretty.

She hangs out on the small, local football field where he plays and watches him, watches his muscles work, watches him score, watches his friends clapping his back, watches him kiss his pretty blonde girl and leave. She feels like the heat and maybe something else is suffocating her. She doesn’t know why she’s even here, in her stupid frilly blouse, doesn’t know what she expected would happen. 

The football field has emptied out. She’s the last one left on the stands - no, wait, she’s not. At the edge of the field where the grass meets the wood of the stands, a girl is crouched, watching something under the stands. Dolores is curious and strolls over, recognising the girl once she stands next to her. Emi. She’s in her class and has a reputation for being weird. Dolores doesn’t know if that’s because she’s actually weird or just because she’s Japanese and their classmates are assholes. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“What’re you watching?” 

Emi points into the shadow under the wooden stand. Something is moving there in the grass, twisting and coiling in the half-light falling through the gaps in the wooden planks. The specks of light are almost not enough to see in, but when Dolores squints she can finally make out the shape. 

It’s a nest of snakes. 

Dolores crouches down next to Emi, keeping her eyes on the writhing mass in front of her. She can’t look away and doesn’t know why. 

“Milk snakes,” Emi says. “They’re not venomous.”

“They look like they are.”

“They resemble coral snakes to scare off predators. Coral snakes are venomous but milk snakes are not.”

“How do you know which ones these are?”

“I can tell from the pattern.”

Dolores still stares at the snakes. “Cool.”

Emi turns her head and focuses on Dolores, her narrow eyes alight with interest. “Do you like snakes?”

Dolores thinks they’re creepy, but she can’t tear her eyes away. She wants something, yearns for something, but doesn’t know what. Maybe something inside of her yearns to touch the animals, feel the thick coil of muscle against her skin. She’s not quite sure.

“Yeah. I wanna touch one.”

“My brother has a pet snake back home, a ball python. It’s not venomous, and tame. You can come and hold it, if you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Emi lives in a small suburban house that looks rather similar to the small suburban house Dolores lives in. She asks Dolores to take off her shoes at the door and leads her towards the back in silence. Nobody else is home. The room of Emi’s brother is small and clean and smells slightly musky. The tank holding the snake sits on a black desk surrounded by cables leading to the lamps and heaters. Emi opens the tank and carefully lifts the snake out with both hands, holding it steady for a moment, allowing it to adjust. 

It’s bigger than Dolores thought it would be, easily as thick as her arm, with brown scales, patterned with creamy, oblong ovals down its sides. She watches in fascination as the snake’s pink tongue flickers in and out of the tiny hole at the tip of its mouth, how its head sways back and forth, how its body moves. Emi holds the snake out for her. 

Dolores hesitates for a moment, then she reaches out and slides her fingers against the scales on the snake’s side. They feel smooth and dry and warm, not slick and cold like she expected. The snake brings its head towards Dolores’ hand, the tongue flickering in and out, in and out. A coil of muscle twists itself around her wrist and she feels all the hairs on her body rise. She still can’t tear her eyes away and she doesn’t move, trapped in the moment as her brain tells her that this is super awesome while something deeper, something she can’t name, tells her this is _horror_ and _death_. Something smells like salt, and Dolores thinks of the ocean, dark and vast and deep. She doesn’t know why. The yearning she felt earlier has not ceased even now that she is holding the snake.

After a while, Emi gently uncoils the snake and lays it back in its tank, making sure that it’s closed and secured. The snake slowly vanishes under a large piece of wood to rest. 

“Most girls I know hate snakes,” Emi says. “They would never touch one.”

Dolores shrugs. Most girls hate spiders too, and she doesn’t. Most girls are small and curvy and pretty and soft, and she isn’t. She wants to be like most girls, but she isn’t and she knows it. 

“It felt nice,” she says instead. “Warm and dry.” She doesn’t mention the visceral fear she felt and can’t explain. The snake couldn’t have hurt her and she thought it was pretty. She doesn’t know why she likes it so much and at the same time feels disgusted and afraid. She never wants to touch it again; she is sad she had to stop touching it in the first place. 

Emi leads Dolores out of her brother’s room and into her own, after fetching a glass of coke for each of them. They talk, about school and snakes and their hobbies. Eventually, Dolores leaves to do her homework. She keeps thinking about the snake. She also keeps thinking about Emi.

-

Dolores is fifteen, Emi already a distant memory after she’s moved away, when she receives her first kiss, not from a boy like she always expected to, but from a girl - small and curvy and blonde, everything that Dolores herself still isn’t. She feels the soft, warm lips against her own, the hands on the muscles of her upper arm, the full breasts pressing against her own small ones and thinks: oh. 

_Oh._

The girl tells her ‘it’s a shame you’re not a boy’ afterwards, and leaves Dolores with a pit full of ice in her stomach, a cold rage that slowly spreads through her extremities. She is a girl and doesn’t want to be anything else, even if she liked kissing the girl. She’d also like to kiss a boy, but they don’t want her, call her fat and a bean burrito. 

Dolores decides they can all go fuck themselves. The dresses and blouses that she never felt comfortable in make way for shirts in a single colour: black. The jeans eventually follow, as do the shoes - thick and sturdy boots that are comfortable and have good grip on the ground. She cuts her long hair into a short bob because it’s easier to deal with and stops trying to find a way to apply makeup that doesn’t leave her feeling like a clown. Her parents ask her what’s wrong and she says nothing. They don’t believe her and she’s annoyed. They decide it must be a phase and she’s even more annoyed. She’s glad they don’t know about the kiss with the girl, or about her thoughts on girls in general, lest they pin her choices on that instead of on the fact that she’s decided she doesn’t want to care what others think about her anymore.

Santiago is the only one who doesn't argue against her, and she loves him all the more for it. He doesn't wear black to the same extent she does, and that's probably a good idea so their parents don't decide she's a bad influence in him. 

But there are days when she feels particularly low and then her brother suddenly sits next to her in a black print shirt that he definitely didn't wear before, and things feel a little more alright. 

Sofía… Sofía gives her a derisive snort, and ignores the matter. Dolores doesn’t care. She doesn’t care at all. 

It’s irony of the highest order, she thinks, when she suddenly does begin to fill out shortly after her decision. Now she has the breasts and hips she’s always wanted, even though she’s still stocky and rather more muscular than most other girls she knows, but she finds it doesn’t change a thing. She doesn’t _care_ anymore. 

She looks at herself in her short bob, her black shirts and jeans, her sturdy combat boots, and feels… okay. She’s maybe not enthusiastic about how she looks, doesn’t think she’s pretty, but she’s comfortable and it’s a lot better than the frilly femininity that’s been her ideal for so long. 

She’s invited to hang out by a clique that dresses similarly, though many of them wear very dramatic black makeup, or have very colourful hair contrasting vividly with their black clothes, or both. She doesn’t feel quite at home with them, but they don’t call her names and they’re more sincere than the rest of her class, so she hangs out with them anyway. Her parents decide that they’ll leave her be as long as her grades don’t suffer, which Dolores makes sure they don’t. 

The next time she hears someone call her a bean burrito, she thinks for a moment, turns around, and then - in a move that is cold and calculated and full of years of pent up frustrations at that stupid word - punches the boy who said it in the face. Not a slap; a full-blown punch, hand curled into a fist and all. She ends up breaking his nose and is suspended from school. Her parents blame her new friends and ground her, but they have to go to work and Sofía, who’s twenty now and at home looking for a job after finishing two years of college, doesn’t care about the task of keeping an eye on Dolores. 

She slips out the back door and into the forest a little ways away from her house, vanishes in the green-tinted shadows, the smell of bark and the crunch of leaves under her boots. She's been here before and knows her way. It's a short walk before the loosely clustered trees start to grow closer to each other, before the trampled and barely visible path she follows leads her from the well-maintained and almost park-like surroundings into something altogether wilder and greener, trunks covered in moss and most of the ground covered in plant life, leaves and mushrooms. 

Her boots are soon covered first in dust and then mud as the canopy above her grows thick enough to permanently shade the ground, causing moisture to remain far longer. It had rained not long ago. Here, the air still feels thick with it, something almost like a fine mist suffusing the air. 

Dolores walks until the path becomes invisible to her roaming eyes and then turns left and, after another few minutes of forcing her way through the overgrowth of the forest, crawls into the well hidden spot under a half-rotten tree trunk that collapsed during a storm earlier that year in spring, the hollow underneath it rendered invisible by the veritable carpet of shrubs growing around and inside it. She has taken care to flatten the plants inside the hollow but leave everything outside intact every time she crawled in, to ensure her hiding spot would remain just as secret as it was when she discovered it.

Here, in a cocoon of wood and greenery, far away from family and kind-of-friends and classmates, she feels at peace. It's dark but not completely so, she can see but everything is a little less sharp, and curled up with the soft pressure of wood and plants surrounding her, she feels held and protected. 

The forest smells musky and earthy, nothing like salt, and yet salt is what she smells anyway. A hallucination that she experiences often, can't explain, and never speaks about with anyone because she doesn't want them to think of her as even more weird than they already do. 

The day drifts away with her curled up in that hollow, thinking and dreaming and occasionally napping, undisturbed. 

It's one of those naps that starts the trouble. She sleeps a little deeper than she should, a little longer than she should, and wakes up in the dark. 

Panic grips her, she can't _see_ and she hates it, but the noise - the noise that woke her up - makes her keep still. 

A rustle, cloth shifting against cloth. Wet squelches. Muffled thumps and slaps. Whimpering. 

Something is moving just outside her little hidey-hole.

Her heart starts to beat faster.

Are they - 

“Stop, please - “ A woman.

“Shut the fuck up.” A man.

She's too loud. They must hear her, her breath, her heart, her thoughts, she's too loud.

There's a louder sound, a thwack, followed by a scream. 

It doesn't stop. 

_Thwack._

_Thwack._

_Thwack._

The scream turns into a gurgle and something very heavy hits the ground. 

Dolores doesn't dare to breathe anymore as the rustle of clothes returns for a moment and then the wet squelching sound resumes, faster than before. She doesn't move a muscle, even when she feels something thick and wet against her hand, a slow moving liquid that seeps between her fingers and then, moving further, through her pants. 

It's warm. 

It smells like salt, and like iron, and like rust.

The noises outside stop shortly after that. There are other noises, of digging, of dragging, of burying. 

And then there is only the night forest. 

It takes her hours until she dares to move, hours until the faint light of morning creeps over the horizon and makes its way through the dense canopy of leaves overhead. Hours in which she shivers from the cold, in which dew seeps through her clothes in addition to the other liquid, hours in which she wishes she had a cellphone like some of her friends at school do, hours in which she is paralysed in terror at the thought of the man coming back. 

Even when the sun has long risen and she can catch a glimpse through the plants in front of her, she does not move. She cannot. 

What if the man is still there?

Or what if he returns and finds her?

It takes until late in the afternoon until hunger and the urgent need to find a restroom finally drive our out of her hole, and she runs the way back in a frenzy, looking around her all the while in fear. 

Her family is furious when she returns until they notice the red on her hand and clothes. She tells them what she has seen and heard haltingly, and not much later she leads the police to the spot where it happened. 

Dolores is in a daze. 

So many things occur in the aftermath - she needs to repeat her story again and again and again in front of varying people, they assign her someone to work through her trauma which she doesn't understand because she's not the person who has been murdered, so what trauma could there be, and she's allowed to stay home from school for a while until the reporters stop making a big deal about the case. 

She doesn't like the repetition, or the therapist, or the reporters in particular. 

But she does like the slow and methodical unravelling of what has happened, and the effort involved to bring it all to justice. 

It feels _right_. 

And so later, when the man who has murdered a woman and desecrated and buried what was left of her has been put into jail, Dolores emerges on the other side with a clear goal in her head.

-

Dolores is nineteen and stands at her sister's door. Her hand is already raised to knock, but she finds it difficult to make the final commitment and actually do it. It's necessary, but Sofía is Sofía and Dolores is Dolores and that's the problem right there. 

But Dolores also wouldn't be Dolores if she let something as simple as apprehension stop her. 

She forces herself past her own inhibitions and knocks. 

“Yes?” 

When Dolores enters the room, Sofía is looking up from a box she was busy packing her winter clothes into, the seasonal part of her wardrobe that she currently doesn't need and this can afford to pack first before she moves out. 

“Sorry for interrupting,” Dolores says, in the clear and precise way of speaking she has adopted over the past two years. It still feels strange on some days, but it helps her stay focused. 

“That's fine,” Sofía replies. And waits.

The two sisters look at each other, one in the doorway and one at the box. 

“I wanted to ask if you could perhaps help me with something,” Dolores finally forces out, fed up with herself, with standing here like the awkward teenager she no longer wants to be. 

Sofía’s eyebrows rise, slowly but perceptibly. Dolores can't blame her, she hasn't asked her sister for help in four years, and that last time was for school. Dolores has started college by now and her major is different than what Sofía studied - something business related, she doesn't remember the exact name of the course - so that can't be it. 

“I want to start applying for a summer internship soon,” Dolores explains, and then forces the next bit out as neutrally as she can, “and I want to make a good impression.”

Sofía looks Dolores over, takes in her frayed jeans, her combat boots, all black. Her bare face. 

Sofía _also_ sees the white shirt Dolores bought, the one with proper buttons and a collar and everything. It had been a strange experience, to buy that. Dolores likes black and feels comfortable in it, and that's not something she necessarily wants to compromise on, but she understands that the legal profession has certain standards when it comes to wardrobe choices, and neither all-black nor combat boots feature into that. But add a little white to all that black, and there's something much closer to _professional_ , and Dolores felt she could work with that. 

So she bought the shirt. Not by herself, because she has no idea how to shop for something that isn't supposed to just loosely cover her body. She had asked a sales assistant for help and she feels that was a good decision; it's a nice shirt. It makes her look less stocky and more curvy, but in a tasteful way. Dolores still needs new pants and proper shoes and maybe a blazer or something, but the first step has been made. And for the rest… Sofía has always known her way around fashion and makeup. 

To her credit, her face looks neither amused nor overly critical, spurring Dolores to say more. 

“I have a straightening iron for my hair, and I bought this shirt, but I'm not sure about the rest. Like shoes. And makeup. Especially makeup. I know you're busy preparing to move out, but I can help you pack if you want - “

Sofía shakes her head and waves her hand to prompt Dolores to step closer. 

“It's fine. I can show you a few things. Come over here, I'll try out one of the classic looks and you can see if you like it. If you do, I'll show you how to do it yourself.” Sofía sits Dolores down on her desk chair and begins to rummage through the drawers, pulling out pouch after pouch of makeup and an assortment of brushes, sponges and nasty looking metal instruments. Dolores has no idea what those might be used for and feels slightly intimidated by the sheer amount of products slowly filling all the available space on the desk; surely it's impossible for _all_ of that to be necessary. 

It is not. 

The thing is, as Dolores comes to understand in the following hour, that makeup can either compliment her skin tone or make it look worse than when she started, and so she needs the right kind of product for everything, things called foundation, concealer, powder, blush and anything else supposed to make her skin look smooth and clear that Dolores can't even begin to tell the difference between. And that's before they even get started on the rest, like mascara or eyeliner, or anything for her lips, which can also make her skin look better or worse, somehow. Sofía needs a while before she finds the proper colours that she claims will work for Dolores, mumbling about how difficult it is to find good makeup for darker skin tones all the while. 

“Have you sent out your applications yet?” Sofía asks suddenly during the application of something liquid and sticky under Dolores’ eyes. She _thinks_ that's concealer. Probably. Sofía told her, but she already forgot. It was never important before today. 

“Yes. I wrote them up with the help of the career advisor at college,” Dolores explains.

Sofía merely nods and continues her work, having switched to a brush while Dolores was answering which she is now using to dab repeatedly against the soft flesh under Dolores’ lower lashes. It's mystifying. Aren't brushes for powder? Clearly, Dolores has a lot to learn here. 

“I don't understand you,” her sister finally states, just as calmly as she has said anything else since Dolores entered the room. It's irritating; Dolores doesn't understand Sofía either and isn't making a big deal out of it, and besides, Sofía doesn't _need_ to understand Dolores, nobody does. 

Dolores doesn't understand herself, some days. 

She just knows that she wants something and she's working hard, has been working hard for years, in order to get it. 

“I thought you hated all of this,” Sofía continues, unrelenting in the face of Dolores’ stony silence. “Looking professional, having a dress code, makeup. And now you're pursuing a career with all that.”

“I have pursued it for the past four years,” Dolores counters. 

“But why? I know what happened back then was... traumatising, but I thought - “

“It's not that,” Dolores replies, not sure if Sofía will understand now when she hasn't even bothered to try in the years since Dolores was witness to a murder in the salty smelling hollow in a forest, a smell that still haunts her to this day. “Or at least not in the way you think. I got to see how the procedures work, how they make a case and sort through all the information, and then in the end there's…”

 _Justice_. Something clean and honest, satisfying. Dolores knows it doesn't always work out like that, and she knows it would therefore be naive to say it. But that's the appeal to her. Or at least a big part of it. 

“There's a sort of progress,” she decides to say instead. “And it can help people. I like that.”

Sofía hums thoughtfully and frowns. Dolores thinks she's going to say something about careers, but instead Sofía picks up one of the metal instruments that look so shockingly like torture devices. 

“Please don't put that anywhere near my face,” Dolores blurts out. 

Sofía laughs. 

“It's just a lash curler.”

“It's goes into my eye?!”

“On your lashes. Just close to your eye. It will make them look bigger.”

“No,” Dolores says. Her eyes don't need to be bigger. They're fine as they are, they just need to be polished a little. To her surprise, Sofía concedes and puts the lash curler away. 

“Fine. Just some mascara then,” her sister concludes. 

The following minutes are some of the most uncomfortable in Dolores’ life as her sister patiently applies mascara to her twitching lashes, pausing each time Dolores flinches because of the sight and feeling of that tiny black brush so close to her eye. 

“We're done,” Sofía announces as soon as she's done with the mascara, and holds up a mirror for Dolores to see. 

It's… 

It's not bad. 

Actually, it's good. It's really good. 

Dolores looks like _herself_ , that's the thing, not like a clown or a model or anything else she doesn't want to be. In the mirror, there is only Dolores, albeit with a more polished look to her sharp face. She blinks in surprise and turns her head, left, right, back to the middle. 

“Good?” Sofía asks. 

“I like it,” Dolores says earnestly, making Sofía smile.

“Then I'll show you how to do it yourself. And I wanted to go shopping next weekend. You can come along and we'll pick out some actual shoes for you,” Sofía says with a glance down at Dolores’ combat boots. 

Those are actual shoes, but Dolores doesn't protest. She's grateful. 

They shop for shoes, and Dolores gets the professional look she needs, and as a result, the internship too.

-

“Congrats,” Santiago says as Dolores falls into the saggy excuse of a couch they furnished the living room with. “So, you going to be all boring now?” 

He gives her the completely audacious grin she's come to expect of him in the three years since they moved in together, and so disregards his question completely. 

“Thank you. Since I didn't expect you to bake me a cake for the opportunity, I went ahead and bought donuts.”

“Harsh,” he comments while flopping down next to her, holding a hand out for a donut of his own. She hands it over without comment. They eat, and stare at the TV in front of them, not really paying attention to the programme.

She's twenty six, he's twenty four, they both finally got jobs as of today. For her it's being hired after months of search after her exams are finished, for him it's finishing his training as a tattoo artist. They still need to tell their parents, but they're both going to wait. Dolores is the pride of the family, and Santiago is not, and they just want to celebrate and both be happy for a bit. 

Not that their parents consider Santiago a disappointment, exactly. 

But ‘lawyer’ just sounds a good bit better and more acceptable than ‘tattoo artist’ and so it is more often spoken about and celebrated, and with more open tones of pride. Dolores hates that, but Santiago asked her not to fight about it, and so she doesn’t. 

“Did you think about it?” Santiago asks her. 

Dolores slows down, shooting him a glance out of the corners of her eyes. He’s still casually focused on the TV. Munching a donut. She knows what he’s talking about, but can’t tell how he feels about it at all. 

“I did,” she replies, with a look to the drawer where the design is stored. 

_Her_ design.

He had told her a long time ago that he was interested in doing his first big, real work on her, and they had been intermittently working on a design together for years, almost the entire time since they moved in together. I was finished months ago. He had made it clear that she didn’t have to get it. If she didn’t want it on her skin, he’d colour it for her and frame it, and she’d get it as a piece of art that she could hang up in her new flat once she moves out. They both know that this will probably happen soon; they like living together but there’s downsides to constantly having one’s siblings around, especially when they’re in relationships or trying to have some fun inbetween. 

It’s a gift, and she gets to decide how she wants to receive it.

Dolores has changed over the years. Her hair is straightened and glossy, she has mastered the art of applying makeup to her face, she has perfected her professional looking wardrobe, and somewhere along the way she has even started to feel strangely comfortable looking like that. It’s no longer like wearing a disguise, it just feels like her. What started out as playing along for the sake of her goal has become a part of her.

But at the same time, who would she be if she played along _entirely_ \- that little spark of resistance is a part of her as well. 

“I want it tattooed,” she tells her brother, who immediately turns to her with a wide grin, now clearly excited. 

They get started on it the very next day, a Saturday, at the studio that Santiago has been learning at. He’s cleared the visit with his boss, who greets the two of them with friendly interest. Dolores has agreed to let him watch, since she knows from Santiago’s stories about his workplace that his boss likes to see how far his apprentices have come. It’s a big moment for them all, in their own ways. The boss sits back and watches as Santiago takes his time to explain his equipment to Dolores, what he will do, and what to prepare for. She already knows this, but she stays quiet and listens anyway. It’s his job, his passion, and she wants him to be able to show his boss that he does it right. 

The moment comes when Dolores has to shed her shirt, but she doesn’t feel particularly ashamed. There’s only two other people in here, one is her brother and the other looks at her more like a canvas than anything else. She lays down on the tattoo table and gets comfortable. Her brother cleans her back and applies the template of the design to her back, wetting it carefully to make sure the ink transfers properly from the paper to her skin. She enjoys that part. 

She hears the needle spring to live, a high-pitched whir that she has heard often when her brother was practising on fruit and pig’s skin at home. 

Dolores had braced for the pain, mentally and physically. 

But when the needle pierces her skin she still flinches, draws a sharp breath and releases it in a shrill yelp immediately after. 

“You ok?” Santiago asks, audibly worried. 

“I. Yes. I was surprised. Go on,” Dolores tells him.

It’s a pain unlike anything else, a stinging burn that eats its way into Dolores thoughts until she can’t think about anything else. She has her cellphone in front of her, it’s going to be a long session and she was offered the opportunity to use it if she announces her movements beforehand so she won’t get bored. But she can’t even imagine using it. The entirety of her thinking and feeling is focused on the sharp contact point of needle on skin, pushing into her. 

For some reason, that gets her, that there’s something flowing into her to settle under her skin, to stay there, permanently, in a blaze of pain. 

She won’t consider what that may say about her, that she likes that idea somehow. 

There’s the smell of salt, the olfactory hallucination that has accompanied her for as long as she can think. 

It takes several long sessions until her tattoo is finished. Outlines, minor shading, colours, more shading, some touch ups. It hurts every time and every time Dolores can’t focus on anything else, doesn’t use her cellphone, just concentrates on the feeling until she reaches a zen-like state of clarity that she ends up finding rather enjoyable. 

According to her brother and his boss, that’s normal for a lot of people who get tattoos. Something about the pain and how the body reacts to it. It sounds weird to her, but she trusts them on it, and tries not to feel too weird about it. 

She can’t help but wonder if there isn’t something else behind it anyway, but she doesn’t know what that could be. 

Her tattoo needs a while to heal. She feels it prickle while the skin repairs itself, and afterwards she keeps thinking about that hidden patch of lines and colours on her back, particularly whenever the situation she finds herself in is especially formal and important. It’s like a reminder to herself; of the connection between herself and her brother, and more importantly of all the things about her that are not polished or professional or proper. 

That alone ensures she likes to think about it. 

She smells salt every time she does.

-

Dolores is twenty nine and stands in her small apartment that she moved into shortly after Santiago finished her tattoo, in front of her television set, remote control in hand, watching in open-mouthed disbelief at the impossible happening. She’s never been a fan of fantasy, never thought about things not firmly grounded in reality, and always considered the supernatural and the people who believed in it as silly at best. 

And now there are monsters. 

And Dolores smells salt. 

The reporters on the screen interview a massive creature that could be a depiction of the devil, only it looks so much gentler. Enormous horns crowning a goat-like head with a full beard, followed by a sturdy, muscular body in polished armour. An actual crown rests between the horns, and the creature has curled up in order to be small enough to fit into the picture, its appearance changing to something almost comical with the posture. According to the shaking reporter, this is the King of all monsters, and his name is Asgore. Asgore speaks in a deep, kind voice and keeps looking up with disbelief and joy, as if he can’t believe that he is there under the sky. 

It’s a perfectly rational decision when she immediately sits down at her computer to research a way to communicate with these monsters, half of her attention still on the television. After all, this is the case of a lifetime, a chance bigger than anything else she will ever get. It’s history in the making, and if Dolores manages to be a part of that, then she will have created a legacy for herself before she even turns thirty. It’s also sure to be really interesting work. Granted, she finds all of her work interesting, the procedures and helping people with their immigration and the legal loopholes and finicky details, but integrating a non-human species? Fascinating.

That’s what she tells herself while she looks up the facebook page of the kid they show on TV and sends her application, the one that she has polished to perfection and keeps updated regularly so she can send it out in a moment’s notice should the opportunity arise. 

She’s elated when she’s accepted overnight. Even more so when she’s invited to come as soon as she can. A quick call, and Santiago promises her to help her sort things out with her flat while she’s away. Her flight leaves in the evening and so she spends the rest of the day packing not only her suitcase, but also some of her stuff to make things easier for him.

Time seems to stretch the closer she comes to meeting the monsters until she feels as if she is a child once more, impatient and incapable of waiting even a single second longer. It then snaps forwards when the moment does arrive, transforming her first moments under monsters into something of a blur. It only becomes clear again when Asgore stands in front of her. 

He shakes her hand, and Dolores - 

Dolores feels as if something is snapping into place. 

Like an itch that was bothering her, finally being scratched. 

A feeling like coming _home_ after a long, long day at work. 

She doesn’t understand and can’t explain it, just like she doesn’t understand and can’t explain so many of her emotions and reactions, but this, this is different from just being weird. It is weird, but it makes her feel good, makes her feel better, and who cares about weirdness with that? Dolores doesn’t. Her nose is filled with the smell of salt in overwhelming intensity, but it seems to fit and after several moments, it recedes to a faint background note among everything else, familiar and comfortable.

The smell will become a permanent staple in the background during her stay in Ebott, but that’s fine. 

Dolores has found a place for herself, and the salt is a part of it, just like the weirdness, and the magic, and spiders, and at some point the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Thalassophobia, murder, referenced necrophilia, children in disturbing situations, near death situations, drowning, non-sexual tentacles


	15. Empty Little House [Toriel]

Toriel sits on the edge of her bed. She has already changed into her nightgown and her robe sits folded on the little stool she has added recently. Her duties for the day are over, it is late, and she needs rest for the coming day. 

In a moment, she will rest. 

Now, she sits on the edge of her bed, and looks at the other bed in the corner of the room, the smaller one, the one just the right size for a child, human or otherwise. It is empty, as it has been for most of its existence. Her eyes are fixed on a single point where the pillow lies, the fabric of the cover ruffled and a dent still in it from where a small head rested. 

She has not made the bed since Frisk left. 

She never could make that bed, after one of her little ones left. 

They keep appearing in front of her eyes, one after another, a row of little faces. Some older, some younger, all of them equally innocent and beloved. Two stand out above the rest; her own son, so similar to her and his father, so soft and so kind. The other looking similar to Frisk, only paler, slightly older, with red hair and red eyes and and a near-constant red blush to their cheeks. Toriel knows that Frisk is not Chara. She would never actually confuse them and she has no trouble treating Frisk as their own person, just as it should be. But even so she cannot deny that sometimes, looking at Frisk makes her soul tremble. The way they smile, the way they tell a joke with that cheeky and expectant expression, the way they can get excited and how determined they can be - it all reminds her so much if the first child she took in after Asriel found them. 

The one she lost to humans, just as she has lost this one to humans. 

Rage boils up inside her and she struggles to keep the flames from building in her paws. What has she done to deserve this? Toriel does not believe in fate, and yet she cannot help but return to this question. There is no justice in the world if a mother has to bury her own son and adopted child, and then six more children one after another, only to lose the last one she thought she could keep as well after that. She feels despair claw at her soul as she always does, and like always she pushes it back and reminds herself that in all her grief, she cannot give in to that darkness. There is still hope, however small, even if she cannot allow herself to fully believe in it just yet. Frisk is out there, and might yet return. Lost to humans, but not lost in the same way Asriel and Chara were. And on top of that, her people need her. 

Stepping up as the queen once more had not been something she expected to happen after all this time. She especially did not expect to rule at Asgore’s side again. 

They still compliment each other. 

It's _bitter_ , how well they can still work together, how hundreds and thousands of years of being together forms a stable and strong foundation in spite of everything that has happened between them. She knows when to push, and he knows when to step back, and they do each of those for the other when the need arises. She takes up the reigns where Asgore cannot and should not be in the lead, makes plans and thinks about the future from a pragmatic perspective, coordinates the science division and discusses cooperations with the humans, founds schools and supports all institutions of learning and child rearing, advocates for a spread of their knowledge. Asgore gladly lets her step in, and focuses his energy on his own strengths; the kindness and charisma he can bring to political meetings and debates, the gentle patience he has for his subjects in all matters great and small, the ability to empathise and assume a perspective not his own to make sure the current policies find the favour of their people and are in their best interests. Hallmarks of a great king and capable ruler. 

If only they had not been so grievously misused in the past. 

On some days, she still finds it difficult to believe. He was her partner, her husband, the man she loved more than anything else in the world. Her best friend, the one she shared her life with in joy and sorrow alike. He had been her rock when she faltered, and she his. No matter what difficulties they encountered, they had faced them together and in their support of each other found the strength to go on. 

How could he have done this? 

How could he decide to legitimise murder, of children of all things, as a way to build a future for their people?

This freedom is built on the corpses of the innocent. 

At least he had buried them, on that first night when they all emerged from the mountain, the majority of the population fearful in the dark, with no ceiling to protect them from the unpredictable weather patterns of the surface, the cold and the wind and the rain. Frisk had advised them to wait until they revealed themselves to the humans, to only make that step the next morning. And so Asgore had ordered that this first night would be a memorial of everything it took to get to this moment. He had carried the caskets out of the mountain personally, where his guard took over and four monsters each took over to carry one of them, forming a procession behind their king as he led the monsters to a secluded spot on the side of the mountain, where he had them buried. It had been a quiet ceremony, led by Asgore himself as he spoke words of grief and regret and honoured the sacrifice of those who gave their souls to free his people. She had not supported him in any of these things, held herself in the background throughout it all, not wanting to give the impression that she came around to his views over the past centuries. Only later after the other monsters had left did she return, to mourn her lost little once in silence by herself. Frisk had stayed with Papyrus and Undyne, Alphys and Sans. She did not like leaving them with Asgore despite what Frisk says about him… she still does not like it. 

And yet, what did it matter? 

In the end, she is still here, staring at an empty bed. Asgore’s attempted atrocities had not even been necessary for her to experience yet another loss. Just one little, empty bed, and the whole house feels emptier with it. Especially since this empty bed is not the only one. There is another, just across the corridor, where a human should sleep but currently isn’t. 

She does not quite feel the same sense of loss and grief for you, but she cannot deny that it bothers her that you left. Another member of her family gone, a family that has grown together so well over the past months, even in the face of her and Asgore’s difficulties with each other. 

More than herself, she can see how your absence bothers Sans. Her young friend really has gotten quite attached… more so than she has ever witnessed before, even though she could not see him then. She does not pry about what happens in that relationship, but she cannot help but see the developments regardless as your and his behaviour changes over time. And just before you left there was a change that has been particularly noticeable to her, more so for how somber Sans seemed when the car containing you had left. He seemed to appreciate her company, but they both couldn’t manage to make each other laugh, in stark contrast to how they normally act with each other. 

Oh, how she hopes you will bring Frisk back, and return safely too… 

She does not know what she will do if you do not. Nor does she know how Sans will react if something were to happen to you while you are away attempting to retrieve her child. He never seemed quite as fond of them, and she wonders how much of his interactions with Frisk are a result of his promise to her so long ago. His loyalty is admirable, considering how much he dislikes making promises. If he feels bitter about it, he certainly never showed it, not even to her finely honed senses. But even so, if his interactions are the result of that promise, and he does not truly care for Frisk the way everyone else does, and something were to happen to you now…

Her mind feels overly full with all the different possibilities. She cannot truly afford to linger on these thoughts, no matter how wrong it seems not to. They should not be pushed aside. But tomorrow, her subjects will need her, just as they do every day, just as they had for thousands of years in the past. Just as they might for thousands more to come. 

The weight of her responsibility presses Toriel into her mattress as she lays down. 

It is only necessity and the practise of many years that allows her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ What happened to Reader...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/24496488)


	16. Running with the Monsters [Chara]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read the main chapter first!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/25481292)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ALL THE WARNINGS GUYS. 
> 
> Seriously, this is dark stuff. I think this is the worst chapter I've ever written. If you have any triggers, please refer to the bottom notes before reading. Stay safe, everybody.

Joanna still hasn't gotten used to the way the ship sways under her feet day and night. No matter how often her mother prepares her tea of peppermint or rosemary. The nausea comes and goes and waves and that means that she can't help her mother like she usually does. There is nothing for her to do but stare at the wooden ceiling of the cabin, listening to the sounds of the other passengers who are only separated from them and each other by lengths of cloth strung up on ropes across the cabin. No true privacy here; the smith is retching, someone is fornicating, those cursed twins are bickering, old Martha’s reciting psalms at her son and his wife. It would be nice to have a moment of quiet for herself, but that's not happening soon. It's only been two weeks and the journey isn't over yet. 

Joanna doesn't know if she wants it to be; the new world sounds exciting but she already misses her home, the small hamlet on evergreen hills where the clouds hung low and fat in the sky and the ground smelled sweet and rich in the summer. 

But the hamlet had begun to give her mother looks and pointed fingers, with each birth and death and sickness and misfortune. Why did she not use her herbs and knowledge to make it all go away? And why did she know the ways of the plants in the first place? And why did her child look so unlike her, so small and quick-moving with eyes and hair like a changeling bastard? 

No matter that her knowledge of the plants was only little greater than that of other women. Her mother acted as a midwife, and knew plants to help with morning sickness and a safe delivery, some to take away pain. She wasn’t a wise woman trained in the art of healing all ailments; what she knew she had learned from her mother and used it to bring in some extra money, in addition to the small vegetable garden she raised and the washing she did and any other little work she could do that people would pay her for. Sometimes, she would invite in men and send Joanna away for a while. 

The people didn’t like that either.

The two of them had left before the people had really started to say what they thought out loud, and though they don’t talk about it Joanna knows they can't go back. She wears dark colours now, her sinful hair hidden under a bonnet, and the people they travel with say that it's proper for a girl to cast her eyes down when she speaks. If she speaks at all. That helps, a little, although Joanna thinks it's dumb that she's treated as if she has nothing to say just because she's a girl, when she's learned more from her mother about all sorts of things, how to grow things and to mend things and to help a woman give birth, than anyone else on this ship. She’s younger than most others here and yet knows so much more, even if her mother tells her she doesn’t know all that much yet, prone to mix things up when she’s distracted or not remembering the instructions right. Still. 

The curtain rustles and a hesitant voice calls for Joanna’s mother. 

“Esther?” The slight lisp tells Joanna that it's Judith, Rebekah’s firstborn. Her mother's started having contractions just this morning and Joanna’s mother had told her to watch the woman, and come running if the water comes or something else changes. Esther parts the curtain and regards Judith calmly, eyebrows raised. 

“No water yet,” Judith tells her, fidgeting nervously, eyes trailed on the ground. “But she says she feels more open as you said.”

A blush is spreading on Judith’ cheeks at the words, the vague hint of what she's talking about enough to fluster her. Joanna thinks it's funny and bites back a laugh. Ridiculous girl. She is glad her cheeks are always reddened, because flushing when speaking of such things is what these people consider proper for young ladies and Joanna could never do it on purpose. She's seen this stuff too much already to be embarrassed by it. 

“Shan't be long then, I don't think,” Esther nods, the strong accent comforting among the more stilted words of Judith and the other people of the ship. Nobody here speaks like Joanna and her mother. They've come from further away than any of them, far to the north where you could see the lights dance across the night sky in winter. “I'll be there in a bit. Go.”

Judith leaves, and Esther turns to Joanna. 

“Best be quick if you want to see the sky today,” her mother laughs. 

“I don’t want to,” Joanna groans, the thought of standing up enough to make her sick again. 

“Up with you, I can’t care for you tonight and the air will help,” Esther grunts.

“Mother, no,” Joanna tries to protest. 

“Don’t be stubborn,” Esther says, and the glint in her eyes tells Joanna that any further resistance will not be tolerated. She has little patience for Joanna’s stubborn nature to begin with, but despite knowing this Joanna can’t help herself. She has to push back. She has to try, at least. “Once Rebekah’s water comes I’ll be gone for hours. Who’s gonna wipe your sick off the floor then? You need the air. Tire yourself out. Up, now.”

Joanna groans again, she really doesn't want to get up but her mother is right, she’ll be gone soon and Joanna is too weak to climb up to the deck by herself, or to clean up when the nausea becomes overwhelming. She heaves herself up and her mother pulls her the rest of the way, until Joanna is standing, swaying with the movement of the ship. Esther keeps holding onto her, but despite the fact that she could simply carry Joanna with how small she is, Esther stays true to her word and lets Joanna walk. Apparently she’s serious about letting Joanna tire herself out. 

Joanna needs several breaks on the way up and nearly throws up twice, but in the end she manages and her sickness gets a little better when the cool wind and the smell of saltwater hits her as she steps outside. Her mother leads her across the deck slowly, greeting a few of the sailors along the way. Most of them are quiet, but easy to talk to once they open up. Joanna likes to hear their stories about the sea and the ship’s kobolds and mermaids and sea monsters. Even though the other people say it’s not proper. Joanna doesn’t care. She wishes she was a sailor too, sometimes. Then she could see all these interesting things and wouldn’t have to care about what’s proper and what isn’t. One of the sailors doesn't speak their language and has trouble pronouncing their names right. He has given up trying to find the right way to say them days and days ago, and now uses something from his own language to call them by for a greeting, which the other passengers find rude but Joanna and her mother think it's funny. Her nickname at least sounds kind of similar to her original name, if you're a bit flexible about how to pronounce the sounds. 

“Time to go back,” Esther declares after a while. Even though at first she resisted coming up, Joanna doesn't want to return now, the fresh air and the movement feel good. But she knows that her mother needs to be ready for when Rebekah’s baby is coming and her mother will probably swat her if she’s willful again so she doesn't protest when they head back down. She lies in bed again when Judith comes to tell them the water came, when her mother leaves and throughout the hours of screaming and murmuring from the other side of the communal cabin until the sounds eventually lull her to sleep. She wakes up to her mother watching her the next morning, tea already freshly made for her. She feels sick and apprehensive. 

“How did it go?” Joanna asks. 

“A boy,” Esther says, which is good but then, “his foot is crippled.”

“Oh.” That's not good. “What did they say?”

Esther shrugs. “Said it must be a trial of the Lord.”

Joanna nods thoughtfully and dares to hope that the whispers won't start anew. It's just something that happened sometimes; they can call it the will of the Lord or as her mother used to say, mother nature doing what she wants now and again. She doesn't say that anymore, not here, not among these people, not after everything that had happened to her and Joanna. 

Still, Joanna is glad for the cloth curtain that separates them from the prying, wary eyes of the other passengers. 

-

The new world is cold and rainy, but also beautiful. Wide, somehow. Joanna appreciates that for all of two weeks before she wishes it was a little less wide, or that the reverent was less intent on pushing into that wideness. 

But his idea of founding the city on the hill, God's true Kingdom in this glorious new land, drives him further and further into the wilderness, until the newest settlements established at the furthest fringes of the colonies are far behind them. They are already fallen, the reverent claims, tainted and full of sin. There is better land out there, purer and untouched, ready for them to claim for the Lord. He pays the savages living here to guide them through the plains and the forests and eventually the mountains, strange people who look exotic and dangerous to Joanna. The group follows the reverent like the sheep they are. 

Joanna tries to argue with her mother, it would be good enough to stay in the colonies wouldn't it, they're already far away from the rumours, but she is shut down. They will follow the reverent until he finds the place he seeks, the fabled place that he claims to have been shown in a vision by God at the very end of the world. Her mother hovers over her, keeps prodding her to look at the land and feel it. She also keeps vanishing at night, and Joanna doesn't know where she goes. She wishes she wouldn’t leave. The land is dark at night and dangerous. Further and further they go, until even the sheep-like followers begin to ask questions, although quietly and hesitantly. They want to settle, for this journey to be over, but the reverent keeps pressing on. They reach another ocean and it’s still not enough. They follow the coastline north until one day there is a lone mountain in the distance that serves as their beacon to follow. 

Joanna can’t seem to stop staring at it. It’s like she can feel it pulling her closer while simultaneously pushing her away and she wonders if there is something to what the reverent is saying after all. If God wants them to live there. But then why does she want to leave, too? She doesn't know how else to explain this sensation. When she tells her mother at night before she leaves, out of earshot of the others, about her suspicions her mother looks pleased. A good omen, she tells her, and that’s that. 

The next day, the reverent declares that mountain the goal of their journey and the people rejoice. Having a clear location to move towards seems to give them new energy and the mountain quickly grows on the horizon until they finally, finally find themselves at the foot of it. The journey is over.

The following weeks and months are spent in frantic, desperate preparation. It’s late in the year. They have been told that while the land is good and fruitful, the winters are hard and long. They still need houses and as much food as they can gather. Communal log houses are constructed together with a church; the latter to hold mass in and thank the Lord for leading them here but also as an emergency shelter for more people to sleep in, while the log houses hold smaller bedrooms in exchange for kitchens. They dig outhouses and construct fences to protect themselves from the wolves and other animals that might attack them otherwise. Some parts of the ground are already prepared so they’ll be easier to work come spring, ready for sowing. 

In the meantime, they forage for food in the forest that grows increasingly dense on the slope of the mountain. Fruits, nuts, seeds, mushrooms and roots fill their storages, and hunted meats from deer, mountain goats and birds are smoked and added to the bounty. Several trips to the nearby sea bring a variety of fish as well, and precious salt. 

The rumours they heard were right; the land is bountiful and many prayers are spoken in praise of the good God who has lead them here into his garden Eden. 

Joanna secretly praises different things. The foraging allows her to approach the mountain, always in the company of other women and girls and a man or two to protect them, but still she can set foot on it. The push and pull grows stronger the higher she climbs, but she never gets to go as far as she wants. For their safety, the women have to stay close to the budding village, the men insist. But the men get to climb. 

It’s not fair.

Envy fills her, and rebellious thoughts. If she were a man, she could follow them, see how high she could go, how strong the feeling would grow, and where it might lead her. If she were a man, she needn’t listen to their rules about where she can and cannot go. If she were a man, she would be free. She thinks it would be simple to snatch a pair of trousers and a shirt out of the laundry; the latter being one of the many chores she has to help with. 

But of course she can’t do that. No girl can, and no girl should want to, and even if she tried, the community is too small and they’d notice the missing clothes and recognise her face. Her thoughts are nothing but the silly dreams of a young girl, willful and useless.

If she could though… 

The first autumn at the foot of the mountain Joanna spends in a constant state of flighty half-distraction that no amount of punishment and prayer can shake.

-

The winter comes and goes and is as long and harsh as promised. Wolves come and threaten the village, and some of the villagers get sick, but most of them survive and this is taken as another sign of God’s favour. Only an older man and Rebekah’s crippled baby don’t make it, and Joanna suspects the latter’s not as much of a tragedy as it could have been. Come spring, the work on houses and the fields is picked up again and when summer comes, Joanna has at least a remnant of privacy for the first time in almost a year as she moves with her mother into the tiny cabin the village helped them build. It’s not much, but then they never needed much, just a place to sleep and cook and for her mother to see to the pregnant women when they come. They bathe in the rivers as they did back home and spend much time foraging for food and the herbs her mother needs. If she promises not to go too far, her mother is even willing to let her go by herself.

Joanna earns her mother’s trust, and then goes too far anyway. 

The mountain calls her and repels her and she gives in to her curiosity and gradually pushes ever upwards. Her skirts hinder her when she goes there and she deliberately uses one of her torn underskirts to sew herself a pair of trousers in secret. She adds a shirt too while she’s at it, for convenience, because the clothes men wear just are so much easier to climb in. Like this she spends days sitting in the shade of a large tree on the mountainside, sewing and listening to potential predators and anyone from the village who might find their way here. She can’t be discovered; it wouldn’t do to let them see her wear men’s clothes. She stashes them in the hollow of a tree trunk and changes in the wilderness whenever she leaves. 

It’s difficult to find the time to leave all by herself, to steal away moments where nobody will look for her, but every time she manages it’s like she grows wings for how light she feels. Moving through the woods is easy and she soon feels more at home on the mountain than she does in the cabin she shares with her mother, or the village itself. 

She sees the looks of the other villagers when she returns from her expeditions with her arms full of herbs and wild berries and nuts and sometimes flowers for how pretty they look, all things her mother and her need for food and for her mother’s work. Joanna feels uneasy and takes greater care in how she arranges her findings; the edibles and flowers on top and the herbs hidden underneath. It helps only a little. 

“Are we safe?” She asks her mother once over dinner. 

“Don’t you feel safe?” Her mother asks back.

“They’re looking.”

“There’s no place where nobody ever looks.”

“But we can’t leave again, if… “

“We won’t have to,” her mother promises, and Joanna has to make herself believe her. 

Of course she can’t stop going, not just because her mother needs her help in foraging, but also because the thought of not setting foot on the mountain again feels like cutting off her own legs. She can’t stand it. Up there, there are no rules and no restrictions, no propriety, nothing that can stop her. She can be as willful and wild as she wants, she can let her hair loose, she can wear the trousers and shirt she made for herself, she can walk with long and strong strides instead of the careful steps the villagers expect. She didn't expect to like acting like a boy so much, but she does. Or rather, she enjoys that she can be both girl and boy, or neither, or anything else she wants to be. She can act like a wolf if she feels like it and nobody will scold her or think her strange. 

It's the ultimate freedom.

Regardless, she tries to let the mountain push instead of just pull and spends more time being seen in the village, doing whatever chores she can in the sight of the other villagers to prove she’s as good as they come, helping with any small task they might have for her. Sometimes she spends time plucking the golden flowers that have started blooming since summer came, big and sturdy things with blossoms bigger than her hands whose seeds stick to everything that touches them. Joanna thinks they’re pretty and she weaves them into flower crowns which she gives away to the other village girls - all older than her - in the hopes it will gain her their favour. 

It at least doesn’t make things worse, so she keeps doing it. 

-

The harvest isn’t as good as they all hoped. Animals have found their ways past the fences and destroyed a part, then long days of rain came until many of the plants drowned, followed by a dry period that eradicated some more. The people are praying and the reverend's sermons are deliberately constructed from the parts of the bible that tell of how God likes to test his followers’ trust. 

Still, Joanna knows it won’t be long until they’ll look for something else to blame. 

“Why did we come here?” Joanna asks her mother, at night when the cooking fire is already burning low. 

“Don’t be stupid, you know why,” Esther says, swatting a fly away. 

“It didn’t solve anything,” Joanna insists, that well-known willfulness rising inside her until it feels as if it would burst. For but a moment, the light of the fire seems blinding, like a star that burns itself behind her eyelids so that she keeps seeing it above the flames, flickering. Behind that, her mother looks at her, outwardly calm, with dark eyes. Joanna ignores all of it and presses on. “They’re worse than they were back home, they’d eat a bible if they could thinking it makes them better! It won’t be long until they’ll say the same things and point their fingers. Why come here? Why not stay at the colonies where more people are, where we can travel? We can’t get away again, now!”

Joanna almost expects her mother to slap her when she reaches out, and braces herself. But instead her mother pulls her into her lap, cradling her close like she used to when Joanna was only a little girl that knew nothing of the world. She squirms in discomfort; she might be small and weak but she's close to twelve now and has helped her mother in matters big and small for years. She's too old for this kind of childish affection, and her mother is holding her too tightly. 

“How's the upper part of the mountain?” Her mother whispers into her ear, and Joanna freezes. She knows. Her mother knows, even though Joanna was so careful -

“I'm not angry,” Esther insists, but Joanna initially has a hard time believing her. “This is what we came here for after all. You feel attracted to it. I slept with the reverent and gave him one of my herbs to make him see things and told him to go on. He listened. It was easy to push him into going where you needed to be. I'm almost disappointed you didn't find them yet.”

This statement is so baffling that Joanna manages to twist in her mother's tight squeeze and look her in the eyes. 

“What?” She asks, not understanding. Her mother laughs and it's not a friendly sound.

“Let me tell you a story,” she whispers. “Once upon a time, long ago, there were monsters roaming the world. Vicious beasts, giant brutes wielding magic like it's nothing.”

“Like dragons?” Joanna asks tentatively, having heard stories of these terrible creatures before.

“Hush. Yes, those too. They fought against us in a war, but couldn't win. Seven mages banished them under the earth at the end of the world for their loss,” Esther continues. Her voice drops a little further, sending a shiver over Joanna. “And once upon a time, long ago, humans held the same power as monsters did. Proper _magic_ like you only know from stories now. That's because we lost it. Monsters gone, they took their magic with them, and the warlocks and witches of old died out.”

Joanna doesn't know what to think about that - it sounds bad, but if there are no more witches in the world then shouldn't that be good?

“And once upon a time,” her mother continues, “not quite so long ago, a young woman remembered the stories that the mother of her mother's mother passed down through the line until she heard it, and decided something had to be done. The mother of her mother's mother was the last of the witches, and she was weak as they came. The young woman should have had the power but she didn't and she felt it was wrong. So she listened to the rumours and the myths that no one believed, that there were some of them left… and she found one of the beasts, far in the north in the land of lakes.”

Joanna stares into her mother's eyes in mute horror, wishing she would stop talking, but unable to interrupt because the story is keeping her trapped. The lakes were not that far from where they used to live. The dread Joanna feels grows deeper, colder. 

“A water serpent, ugly as sin, and oh so wary. But monsters have a weakness, you know. They trust too fast. Love too fast.” Her mother pauses, and then confirms Joanna’s fears. “Good thing too, I had to act quickly before the baby came.”

“Mother - “

“I wasn’t going to bring a bastard with no magic into the world,” Esther hisses, her hands so painfully tight on Joanna’s arms. She doesn't dare to scream. “I made the monster like me. Trust me. Love me. Did you know monsters fuck with their soul?”

“No.” Joanna doesn’t know if she’s answering the question or protesting where this is going.

“Well, they do. Forget all you’ve heard about unicorn horns and dragon scales. I’ve been told as my mother has been told by her mother before her, and her mother before her. And now I’m telling you. Monster bodies turn to dust when they die or when you cut a piece off. Useless. The soul, that’s what counts, that’s where the power is, the magic. So when that beast took it out to fuck me, I knew what to do.”

Joanna shakes her head in silent horror, her own hands trying to pry those of her mother off without success. 

“I grabbed it and I ate it,” Esther continues ruthlessly. Joanna starts to fight her mother's grip in earnest, she doesn't want to hear this, but her mother holds her hard and strong and she can't get away. “I ate and watched the monster crumble while I did. It turned to dust, but the soul was inside me, the magic was inside me, I could feel it press against my insides… and then it went away. Into _you_.”

“No, stop,” Joanna whines, the first sobs ready to emerge from her throat. She feels shame at the thought of crying like a little child, she's too old for that, but she can't stop herself. She doesn't want this to be who she is, a witch bastard created by the consumption of a rotten soul by a rotten beast who had impossibly loved her rotten mother only to be betrayed. 

“I could see that you were different right away,” her mother croons. “And I knew the new world must be where the monsters would be, here at the end of the world.” 

Despite the change in tone, Esther’s grip is still harsh on her daughter, leaving no illusions as to what she really feels. 

“You're going to bring them back,” she continues, her voice fervent in Joanna’s ear. “You'll bring them back and with them the power. That's what I made you for. So stop wasting your time on that mountain! You can feel it, you can feel _them_ , what are you waiting for? Break them out!”

“Stop! I don’t know how!” Joanna weeps, no longer pretending to be strong. She feels as though she's on fire, a pickling heat searing through her body. She wants to get away from her mother, she wants to never have heard all of this. Something is pressing against the inside of her skin, uncomfortable and persistent until it bursts and flows over. She feels as though something inside of her is shattering and it hurts and there is light and then darkness everywhere and she doesn't know what's happening but she _wants this to not have happened_ \- 

“Don’t be stupid, you know why,” Esther says, swatting a fly away. 

Joanna blinks at her, stares, sitting where she was before her mother pulled her onto her lap. Her heart is hammering inside her chest, a thin sheen of sweat begins to form on her skin. She's both hot and cold all over. Something happened. She was there and now she's here. Her mother said something she had already said. 

Joanna had wished for what followed after that sentence not to have happened. 

“No protest?” Her mother prompts, watching her with those dark, inscrutable eyes. Eyes of someone who ate the soul of a monster for its magic, magic that Joanna apparently _just used_ -

She turns to the side and manages to throw up into a bucket instead of onto the floor. Her throat is burning with her sick and tears she never got to shed now that the bad talk didn't happen. 

But in some way, it must have happened, for Joanna still remembers it, clear as day. She sobs into the bucket, finished being sick but unwilling to turn back to her mother. 

“What did you do?” Her mother asks, sounding alert and greedy. 

“I must have eaten something bad,” Joanna insists, still bent over the bucket even though nothing else is coming. 

“Don't lie to me,” her mother says calmly and pulls her up. Joanna immediately winds herself out of her mother's grip. “You used it, didn't you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Joanna insists, fearfully hoping that her mother will believe her. Esther merely stares at her daughter with a knowing smile. 

“Figure it out fast,” she says, and laughs when Joanna draws back into herself. “The people are whispering. We won't be leaving so you best know what to do before they decide to do more than whisper.”

-

They come in the evening a month later, when more crops have died and the hunts have been bad and there has been too much rain and too much cold. Witchcraft, they say, and it's obvious who must be responsible. 

They question Joanna and her mother separately and Joanna doesn't know what to say. 

No, she hasn't seen her mother dance naked during full moon, no, she hasn't heard her saying curses over her neighbors fields, no, she hasn't witnessed her fornicating with the devil to draw on his power. No, she hasn’t done any of these things either.

It's ridiculous and she can see by their leering expressions that they're trying to shame her and rile her up. But why would she care? She's not like the other girls. She has seen births and deaths and she has walked on the mountain in trousers with wild hair, unencumbered, nothing like a girl should be. She never liked that ideal anyway. 

No, she isn't ashamed, only frightened. 

Her mother has pushed her in the month since the talk that never was, pushed her to use her powers and to go to the mountain and free the monsters. She didn't, has instead tried to fit in even more, although knowing that it wouldn't work. She truly is a witch after all. A demon. She has no place here. What can she hope for, now that they're questioning her and her mother? Surely she will be discovered and then she will be dead at barely twelve years of age. 

They leave her in a locked room for the night and come to her again the next morning, and tell her that her mother has confessed. Joanna starts to cry and doesn't know how to make peace with death. She is clothed in a fresh dress and the reverend begins to read the bible to her while holding his hand on her head. She is sprinkled with holy water and the name of the Lord is invoke in front of her. 

“You are free now, child,” the reverend says gently after it's over, withdrawing his hand from her head only to grab her by her arm. “Free of the devil who possessed us both.”

“What?” She asks, not understanding. 

“I know you must be confused. Come. You shall find joy seeing the last of your tormentor burn.” The words are soft in his pleasant voice. Joanna stares at the reverend as he leads her outside, but quickly finds her eyes diverted. 

In the middle of the village in a field of late-blooming golden flowers is a pyre, and tied to it is her mother. 

Only the insistent tug of the reverend on Joanna’s arm ensures that she steps closer to it. Her mother turns her head and watches her with dark and pleading eyes. 

Joanna doesn't know what to do. She’s upset with her mother but it’s still her mother, and she doesn’t want her to burn. Where would she go then? And before that horrible revelation, her mother had perhaps not been the kindest woman, but she had cared for her as a mother must. So Joanna tries to remember that feeling she had when she made the talk about her birth never have been, to save Esther from her fate like a good daughter should save her mother, but all she feels is fear and the pyre still sits in front of her. 

Esther begins to laugh when the pyre is lit and Joanna starts to scream. 

“See, the last of the devil is leaving her,” says the reverent. 

It doesn't take long for the flames to engulf Joanna’s mother completely. The sickly sweet scent of burning meat suffuses the air as the men of the village hold Joanna back, prevent her from surging forwards to save her mother from the fire. Esther soon isn't laughing anymore but screaming too, until she starts coughing, and then with a gurgle her voice dies with her. 

Joanna stares at the fire that ate her mother and suddenly it's her that begins to laugh. She laughs and laughs and keeps laughing because it's just so funny. Tears are streaming over her face. 

“I know. It's a relief to be free from that evil,” says the reverent. Joanna mealy chokes on her own laughter at that. 

They wanted to burn the witch and got the wrong person. Her mother paid for it. She wasn't innocent, not completely, but she was at least innocent of the crimes she had been accused of. 

And instead, Joanna the witch walked free.

-

The reverent has taken her in for now, to help her recover and give her the godly upbringing she has obviously been deprived of in her life. She is gifted new clothes and has three full and hearty meals a day, and she sleeps in a proper, soft bed instead of a sack of stuffed straw on the ground. But she misses the warmth of her mother next to her, the comfort and familiarity. Instead of running around in the village doing this and that, or exploring the wild beauty of the mountain, she now is made to help in the house, and sit quietly when the reverend reads her the bible. 

That is often, and he chooses peculiar stories; those of Lot and his daughters and how women must always be obedient to men. He stares at her in a way she has seen men stare at her mother before, and is afraid, but she can’t ask anyone for help.

Things aren't the same after they burned her mother on the pyre. Although initially the village believed that her mother had used her evil powers to control her, soon they begin to look to Joanna once more. 

After all, why would the reverend take in a half-wild girl, looking like a changeling bastard, whose mother was a confessed witch? Why feed her and clothe her and give her the attention he should reserve for the wife he must be taking soon? Surely, he isn’t considering her. 

Joanna thinks he is though, and the thought disgusts her. She’s not sure if her mother really passed all of the magic of that soul she ate onto her, or if some didn’t remain. Joanna can’t imagine that the reverent would have spared her and taken her in if her mother hadn’t influenced him somehow, like she did when she pushed him on during their journey. If that’s the case, then either the magic will wear off soon or it won’t and he’ll keep considering her. Both aren’t options she can live with.

She knows she can't stay here. 

It’s only a matter of finding just the right moment to slip away; they keep a tight watch on her so she can’t just come and go as she pleases like how she used to. She doesn’t know what will happen if they catch her so she needs to make sure that she pulls it off right away. There is little she can do in preparation; she can't hide too much food or it will spoil, so she adds only some nuts and dried fruit that will keep for a while to the small bundle she hides under her bed. A little easier is a knife. Since the reverend doesn't do the cooking and the cleaning anymore, that's all for her now, she dares to sneak one small knife into her bundle too. It makes her feel a little better knowing she has something sharp to protect her, even if she has never used a knife for anything but cutting food. 

Her preparations come to an abrupt halt one night when she wakes up to the reverend entering her room, so late in the night that it’s almost morning. He approaches her bed calmly when she sits up, leans forwards, and -

He never intended to wait for a marriage, Joanna realises, panic and rage and disgust rising in her. 

After being made to leave her home, after learning of the cannibalism that created her, after witnessing from up close her mother burning on a pyre, this is what breaks her and she suddenly hates them all, the reverend and the village and her mother and the entire rotten world for daring to do this to her. She won't take this anymore. She won't. 

She can barely move under his weight, but she manages to stretch enough to get her hand into the bundle under her bed and around the handle of the knife. 

It sinks into his left eye as easily and softly as it has always sunk into the meat she cut for his stew. 

He flinches back and screams, falls off her, and slides to the side and off her bed with a heavy thump, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Her heart, almost beating calmly until now, suddenly begins to race. She should have stabbed him in the throat! He's going to wake everyone up!

Quick now. Quick. She has to hurry before hear the reverend and see what she has done. His actions won't matter to them, only hers. She must leave, now. She’s out of the bed in a second and has grabbed her small bundle. No time to stop in the kitchen or change into a dress. It won’t matter anyway. The village is slowly waking up with the screams, but the night is dark, allowing Joanna to run past the houses before they can light their candles and lanterns, reaching the forest on the mountain slope quickly. Despite the low light, she finds the path to her tree where she stashed the trousers and the shirt easily, having walked it a thousand times before. 

Quick now. No time to waste, she has to vanish before they come. They must have found him by now. She tosses the nightshirt she’s wearing aside and slips into the comfortable clothes she had sewn for herself, loose enough to move easily in but not so loose that they would get tangled in the branches of the trees. Her hair, not hidden under a bonnet at night, does get tangled though and in her frantic panic she takes her knife and hacks it off, needing several swipes until it’s done. It doesn’t even touch her shoulders afterwards. No matter. She doesn’t need long hair. 

Quick now. She can’t stay. Maybe with her nightgown here and her cut hair, they will think the wolves got her. That would be a relief, but she can’t count on that so she begins to climb, faster and further than she’s climbed before.

Quick. 

The sun is halfway over the horizon when she, out of breath and sweaty despite the chilly temperature, sees a cave before her. It’s not a big cave, and the walls look like they’re crumbling, as if the whole thing could come down at any second. 

Good. 

Perhaps that will keep them away. She's exhausted and decides to allow herself to rest there for just a little while and moves past the entrance and into the cave. 

There is a hole in front of her. 

Huge and round and with some vines tangled around it. It was here all along. The entire time. Her mother had asked her why she hadn’t tried harder to find something on the mountain, and Joanna laughs, she had been right. If only she had tried harder then maybe she could have unleashed the blight of monsters unto the world once more, to give those filthy humans what they deserve. But for that, it’s not too late, is it? She can still have her revenge. She only needs to figure out how - 

Her foot catches in one of the vines and she falls forwards with a lurch, into the deep dark blackness of the hole. 

Always too distracted, Joanna thinks to herself like her mother used to scold her, before she suddenly screams because this wasn’t what she planned, she was about to get revenge, she can’t die yet, not yet, not yet, she can’t. She crashes into the ground and the world flickers 

flickers

_flickers_

and goes dark. 

-

Joanna wakes up with a groan, lying face down on ground that’s only sparely covered with grass. There’s a certain chill in the air, but not the same kind she felt up on the mountain. Something mustier and older. Like touching old stone. The air smells different too, and there’s… there’s something else in the air as well, though she has no idea what. The closest she can come to describing it is a pressure, but that doesn’t feel quite right. 

There’s a soft sound somewhere before her, the shuffle of feet. 

Oh no. 

Did someone follow her? Or…

She tries to push herself up, but she doesn’t get far. Her body hurts and some of her limbs won’t move entirely the way they should. How far did she fall? She should be dead. Except she didn’t want to die, and the world had flickered like it did once before, so perhaps that’s why she’s still here. 

Someone speaks. 

The voice is childish and soft and everything it says is entirely incomprehensible. Joanna tries to lift her head, but she can’t. Everything is so painful. Whoever is speaking steps closer, into her field of vision, and Joanna sees a pair of feet that are anything but human. They look more like giant paws, covered in thick white fur. So she was right. She has found them. Found the monsters her mother spoke of. 

But she is hurt, she can’t… she can’t fight them like this. What will they do to her? Humans sealed them here under this mountain, surely she won’t be able to do as her mother did and win their trust. She’d pray, if everything that happened to her hadn’t ripped the faith out of her heart like a storm upends a tree, roots and all. 

Paws touch her and she flinches. 

There’s a feeling of familiarity stronger than anything she knew before. Like the summer grass tickling her feet when she runs, like the pollen of those beautiful golden flowers sticking to her when she made flower crowns, something tingles between her skin and the fur of this monster, telling them that they’re the same, that they’re magic, that they’re as one. 

She does manage to lift her head at that, sharply looking up only to find herself staring into a face that is as alien as it is… cute? 

It looks like a baby goat but not entirely, with big wet eyes that seem worried. 

The creature lifts her up and helps her stand. It’s just as tall as she is and says something again that she still can’t understand. 

“I don't know what you're saying,” she tells the baby goat, causing it to blink in what looks like complete surprise. 

Didn't her mother say monsters were ugly and brutal? This creature looks so harmless and its expressions are so human-like. Is it a trick?

“Asriel,” the baby goat says, laying one paw on its chest, and then pointing at her. That she does understand, but she isn't sure if she can trust the creature. She has had her trust betrayed too often lately. And names, that's something everyone knows, have power, and she doesn't want to give this creature power over her. What to do?

She remembers the sailor who couldn't pronounce her name right, the one who gave her a nickname that kind of sounded like it with a bit of flexibility. She doesn't remember now how exactly that nickname had sounded either, but she can approximate it and that seems fitting. An approximation of an approximation, something close to who she is but also far removed. It's how she feels about herself and so that's what she goes with. 

“Chara.”

-

They failed. Chara can't believe they failed after everything, they can't believe he refused them after how much they sacrificed. They died to free the monsters, a brutal and blistering death molded after the one they almost inflicted upon their adopted father because they had been too careless and distracted when they baked that pie for him, like always. Even with a new name and a new family and a new state of being, old habits die hard. 

But they had more than made up for that failure, hadn't they? After they had taught the monsters their language, and the monsters in turn had taught them that it was okay if they didn't want to be woman nor man, and they had lived like family with the Dreemurrs, surely almost poisoning the king was still a crime, but then they had thought of the plan, and it was so good. They would die and repent, and their soul would be used to allow them and their brother to cross the barrier and gather the rest. And yes, for them it would also be a chance to get revenge. 

Show the villagers the body of the child they had treated so badly, and then bring vengeance upon them. A judgement. It was what they deserved and besides, it was necessary to free the monsters. It served a greater purpose. It was almost too good a fate for them. Who cared if those wretched humans died if it meant the monsters, who were far less monstrous than the humans in behaviour, would go free? 

Asriel had cared of course.

It had been stupid of them to expect him not to. Sweet, poor Asriel who had already doubted their plan but had been so easily pushed into going along, had finally found a boundary he would not cross whatever the pressure. 

He's crying for their parents now but Chara isn't really listening. They have more important things to do, searching inside themselves for the pressure of their magic. 

They had learned so much about their powers since they fell Underground, there's no stigma against it here and the monsters had shared their knowledge freely once they had been able to communicate enough to do so. Toriel and Asgore had warned them against abusing their specific variation of magic, because there's always consequences to your actions, and that's how it should be. But emergencies, those are okay. So all they need is to focus and they'll make it never be. All will be well.

Except. 

The force of will that always carried their power isn't _there_ anymore and Chara mentally stills. Toriel had explained how human magic is depended on the traits of their souls, and Chara… Chara’s soul is merged with Asriel's and his soul is white. Their traits have mingled and diluted. 

Chara _can't_ use their magic, because the catalyst for it is too weak. 

That's when they begin to scream, trapped in a corner of the mind they share with Asriel while he controls the body. Dying once was bad enough, they don't want this again, that wasn't the plan, they had thought they could undo it but they had forgotten about the traits and they feel so stupid and so scared and _they don't want to die_. 

They see Toriel and Asgore in front of them, approaching in a panic after Asriel has called for them over and over, he's leaning over Chara’s corpse that he has placed on the soft grass of the throne room, reaching out for them. 

And then, in a rupturing burst of silver, their shared body explodes into dust. 

It's dark. 

It's so dark. 

Chara hears their adopted parents scream from very far away. They can't breathe. It's like holding their breath but beyond the point of urgent need, beyond desperation and pain, an eternal suffocation.

What's happening?

They feel like they're trapped. 

They feel like they're being picked up. 

How?

They feel a blistered, cold body around them, and think ‘oh.’

They feel their old body placed in a soft and tight coffin. 

They feel their old body removed from the soft and tight coffin. 

They feel their old body placed in earth and buried. 

They feel it rot, they feel the maggots come eating away at it, they feel them laying eggs in the body and the eggs hatch and larvae crawl through the remains. They decay to the point of being nothing but bones and they're there and aware for every second of it, bound by unnaturally acquired magic triggered only half-way by the fervent wish not to die. They have no concept of time and no concept of how to end their suffering.

They keep screaming for a good long while, but eventually succumb to mute horror. 

There's just no point in screaming when nobody comes. 

-

There's a feeling of something burning. 

A will so strong it could move mountains. Stubbornness so steely that no amount of setbacks could stop it. Determination enough to jostle at old and half-dead magic. To pull it in and with it whatever is left attached to it. 

There used to be someone else who could burn like that. 

It's nice to get a feeling of that again. There's no pain anymore. No suffocation. No pressing earth. No roots winding around bones. And no more maggots or worms. How peaceful. How soothing. How lulling. 

It would be easy to just sleep like that, but there are voices. 

Voices that Chara knows, and the thought yanks them out of the slumber that their mind retreated into, to protect themselves from the horror of their situation. They see a golden flower with a face attacked by fire and thrown aside before it flees. Most importantly, they see their adopted mom. They smell the humid chill of the stone caves near Home. They feel a body moving that doesn't belong to them. And there's also the presence of someone else here, a second consciousness besides their own. Who is this?

_What_ is this?

Weren't they dead?

They're so confused. They must have come back somehow, but why? The body moves and follows Toriel as she explains how puzzles work in the Underground. She speaks strangely. Under normal circumstances, Chara would have found it difficult to understand her, if not impossible. But the body they're in automatically understands, and so they understand as well. 

It's a small body. As small as theirs used to be, but with darker skin. It’s dwarfed by Toriel as she walks it through Home… or the Ruins, as she calls it now. Why is Home in ruins? How long has it even been? And where is Asriel?

Toriel asks the body Chara is in to practise an encounter situation with a dummy. 

There’s a sense of insecurity and fear. 

This body… this _child_ wants to know more about the dummy. It’s scared of damaging the dummy, and of having to fight actual enemies later. 

But they don’t technically have magic; Chara does. It’s their determination, but Chara’s power. The child is blind in an encounter without them. For just a moment, they feel tempted to let them do this by themselves. After all, Chara was this small, even smaller, when they learned to fend for themselves. But then they sigh and give in. They don’t know what to do or why they’re here, so they might just as well play along. They sing the child a little nursery rhyme after telling them the dummy’s stats as they see them. 

That seems to calm the child somehow, although now they’re also more curious about Chara. 

Chara holds back though. 

They’re going to see for themselves what kind of human this is before they reveal themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: period based racism against natives, religious extremism, witch burnings, burned alive, soul cannibalism, child abuse, child sexual abuse, death, body horror, suffocation, buried alive, eaten alive, rotting alive


	17. An Act of Human Kindness [Asriel]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This has a main Chapter that goes with it!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/26051553)
> 
> The order of reading doesn't matter this time.

Asriel clutches the bed sheet tight that night. He’s exhausted from the physical and emotional drain of everything that has happened. But sleep, that doesn't come easy. 

He’s alive. 

He has a soul. 

He’s so afraid it won’t last.

In that moment when the needle of that syringe breached the delicate flesh of his blossom and he felt his head snap clean off his stem, he had thought you had betrayed him. At first, he hadn’t been mad. Just calm and curious because it was something new. But then he panicked, because he didn’t want to die and he couldn’t reset anymore. Suddenly, he felt so scared. It was so dark. Like the first time. And like the first time, he called out, and nobody came. And would Frisk really reset for him? He couldn’t understand their kindness. Nor could he understand yours. He had agreed to the whole ordeal because it seemed like a waste not to after so many timelines of him staying away and watching you die in the one timeline where you had tried to scale Mount Ebott before. 

Asriel thinks he can understand it a little bit better now. Kindness is a nice trait to have all things considered. A soul doesn’t feel like anything when it’s not out, but he would swear his kindness feels warm and soft. Almost like the core of love, hope and compassion that he used to have when he was nothing but a monster. It tempers the determination, too. That insane burn of willpower that monsters are incapable of by themselves. The other traits play a role of course. But the kindness most of all counteracts the unnatural determination he has. He knows that. 

It almost makes him feel like a normal monster.

Almost. 

Because unlike monsters, humans can _choose_ if they want to care. 

It's a frightening setup, in his opinion. At least when he - when he was Flowey. He didn't love and didn't care because he didn't have a soul. He couldn't help himself. It had been difficult enough to find intellectual reasons to hold his violence in check once he first tried killing out of curiosity. So that was not an excuse for his behaviour, but it explained things at least. But humans - to be capable of that much care and then choose to forego that. That's something he finds utterly disturbing. Incomprehensible.

And that's him now. 

He’s not a monster. He’s so much closer to a human now.

That's how his own soul works now. 

He noticed that almost right away when his mother had knelt before him, not able to believe that he had come back. And his father, who had accepted him without doubt. He was so very relieved to find that this meant something to him. That he cared about the fact that these monsters are his parents who have missed him for more than five hundred years. But he also felt a distance. A detachment. He had not cared about them for so long, as Flowey. Now he could - or he could not. At that moment, he only cared because he wanted to.

And what does that say about him?

What if he is still a horrible creature?

What if he gets bored again and stops caring?

What if he attacks Frisk and his parents and you and everyone?

Perhaps it really means nothing other than that his soul has changed. But that comes with its own host of problems. 

When he died over that flower patch with Chara, he had definitely been gone. No remnants of awareness. No afterlife. Nothing. But what had come back when Doctor Alphys injected that first flower with enough determination to wake up the dust of the dead? Not his true soul, that was gone. And boy, what trouble had that been. What trouble had _he_ been. And not his his feelings, or at least not all of them. He still feels it is strange that some feelings seem to depend on having a soul and some do not. His memories had come back, yes, but what of his essence? It must matter, surely. Somehow. 

So. Is He the boy who died five hundred years ago or not? 

Is he Asriel, or is he a construct with the memories of Asriel? 

The original, or merely a copy?

And is there a difference?

Is he _real_ enough?

He isn't sure. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing where it's possible to make sure. The memories of Asriel without a soul had been called Flowey, and now the memories with a soul are called Asriel. But the soul is not the same. He fears that this means that he's nothing but another botched resurrection, can't help but wonder what will go wrong next. The fact that he can choose to care, or not, seems foreboding enough. He wants to care. So he does. For now. What if he doesn't one day?

Will your kindness really be enough to hold him in check?

He has so many questions, and nobody to ask them. Surely Frisk and Chara would understand, what with how the resets work. Leave your original body behind, insert yourself into another one with its own soul and its own memories. He had done that too, when he had that power. But he hadn't _cared_ back then. He cares now. Do they care? 

He carefully shifts his head. Peeks over to them in the darkness where they rest against his mother's body on her other side, opposite of where she has him cradled against her. She had refused to let them both sleep anywhere else but in her bed tonight. Frisk seems fast asleep. Their face is calm and untroubled. They've saved and loaded a lot. And reset a lot, from what they said, which he can't remember. He always asked to have his memories erased when they achieved this perfect ending for everyone. That’s what they said. Just like he did this time. So, if they've done a lot of resets, it probably doesn't bother them anymore. They have probably gotten used to it. But at some point, they must have cared. Surely?

He doesn't know if he wants to ask them. He isn't sure if he would like the answer. 

Asriel shifts back to his original position and folds his paws over his chest. His new soul also feels heavy somehow. That could be the new human traits, or that could be the flower that now makes up the vessel for those traits. After all it’s the same blossom that used to be his head and face. Something physical. Still, it’s weird. A fragile flower for a soul and yet it feels heavy. He should probably tell smiley… tell Sans about that. So he can make sure this new soul is functioning properly.

It's just, if it doesn't. And there's something wrong. Then maybe Sans will try and take Asriel's soul away. He can't have that. He has to keep this soul. It's _his_ , you and Sans had made it for him to keep!

He refuses to think about what that means for his relationships, that he technically gained a new set of parents. Not that that's the weirdest thing about him. He spent some years living as a time travelling flower. It's hard for things to be stranger than that. But. He has a mother and a father. Even if caring for them is now more optional than it used to be. Even if he has no idea how to even begin talking to them after having been dead for centuries. His talks with them as Flowey had been unproductive, so much so that he always reset those timelines. Asriel had told himself that was because he had no soul, but he notices now that having one doesn't make this easier at all. If anything, it's harder. Five hundred years apart can change people. And being revived as a time travelling flower without a soul and then being given a new artificial somewhat human soul changes a person too, to be fair. He can't expect them to be the same parents he lost. Even if he kind of wants them to be that. They can't expect him to be the same son they lost. Even if he kind of wants to be that.

Sleeping next to his mother already feels unusual. Not just having a body and lying in a bed instead of digging his roots into the earth to absorb nutrients while he rests. 

Golly, he's going to have to eat again now, isn't he?

He doesn't even remember when he last really bothered with food. He could eat as Flowey, of course. He did it on several occasions for his own pleasure or because it pleased someone he was trying to befriend. He had even spent several timelines just tasting and learning how to cook all the food there was in the Underground, because it had been something new and interesting to do then. But as a whole, eating was inefficient in comparison to photosynthesis and absorption of nutrients while he moved through the soil. So his eating habits had been irregular and optional. 

In any case. 

Sleeping next to his mother isn't strange because he's in a bed with a proper body. 

It's strange because it doesn't feel as comfortable and secure as it used to, before. 

When he was first Asriel - or, when the Asriel whose memories he carries was alive, if that should be more accurate - he had sometimes crawled into his parent's bed after a nightmare. Curled up against their big, warm bodies, he had always felt that he was safe. That no harm in the world could befall him, as long as he stayed there. Now he knows that isn't true. Just something children believe.

Maybe there's nothing wrong with him at all, and he merely grew up. 

Is he grown up?

He's still small. But he also lived and learned so much. He's not sure if he feels ready to be grown up, but he doesn't feel like a child either. That should be something Frisk can help him with, shouldn't it? They must feel like that too. Perhaps he will ask, if he can figure the rest out before that.

The bottom line is that he has changed. 

Maybe it’s that he has a different soul.

Maybe it’s that he is a construct with a set of resurrected memories.

Maybe he grew up. 

He really wants to figure this out and he’s really scared to. It makes it difficult for him to just be happy that he gets to be here. That he gets to exist with this shiny new soul full of kindness.

Why can’t he be happy?

This is so typical. Chara was right. He was always such a crybaby. And now he’s worse. He can’t even appreciate the selfless gift you have given him. You were ready to risk your soul just so he could have this. And yet all he feels is fear and guilt and inadequacy. 

Asriel rolls to the side, away from his mother. The tears that have gathered in his eyes drip quietly onto the pillow. He suppresses his sobs. He doesn’t want to wake up his mother and Frisk. They deserve to sleep. They shouldn’t have to deal with someone like him. Maybe he never should have left the mountain at all. 

It’s easy to leave the bed. Despite it being queen sized, it’s not meant to accommodate a very large boss monster and two children at once. He had been lying close to the edge already. His feet make no sound when he walks to the door and slips out. The door is quiet too. His mother must oil it regularly. Good. 

The door to the room you sleep in is right across Toriel’s room. It takes him only two steps to approach it. He wipes away his tears and squares his shoulders. He’s going to tell you. He will tell you that this was all a big mistake. That he doesn’t deserve this. That he can’t appreciate it. That he’s sorry. He will give you all that lovely kindness back and all the other traits too. Then, you can not be tired anymore and he won’t bother anyone. That will be best. 

Ah, but he will have to give Sans his magic back, too. Another person he has inconvenienced. Maybe he should ask Sans to do this in the first place. The smiley trashbag had never liked Flowey. Perhaps he could guess what Flowey had done to him. Or his brother. Perhaps he had deja vu of it. That happened sometimes. If that was the case, it would be really easy to get the trashbag to do it. Probably. 

He knows just the things to say. 

He knows Sans. 

He knows _just_ the right words to really make it hurt. 

It had gotten so easy, manipulating people…

Asriel stops himself in his approach towards Sans’ door. No. That’s wrong. He can’t do that. 

He’s not Flowey anymore. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He can’t say all those awful things to Sans. Not after Sans helped him and gave him some magic so Asriel could be himself again. Or something close to it at least. And if Sans were to take the magic and the soul traits back, it would hurt many other people too. It would probably hurt you if you learned that he wanted to reject your gift. It would definitely hurt Toriel, even more if her best friend Sans took her son away. It would hurt Asgore too. Papyurs would be very disappointed in his brother. Frisk would be sad as well. 

What has he done? 

Being here he might just end up making everyone sad, but he can't go back either. The tears quickly make their way back into his eyes at that thought.

He doesn't know how long he sobs in the corridor before he turns and makes his way back into the bedroom. It doesn't matter anyway. As long as nobody notices.

He doesn't have a right to complain to anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	18. Let's you and him go to Bed [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Goes with a main chapter!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/26140269)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Reading order again doesn't matter here.

Sans is incapable of concentrating. He never would have expected that one single evening with you would be enough to erode his composure into a fragmented farce of what it one had been, but here he is. The monotony of sorting through the paperwork he and Alphys had brought over from the garage lab to see what should be kept and what should be typed and uploaded and what should be thrown away doesn’t help either. 

He hates paperwork at the best of times and this isn’t the best of times. 

Fidgeting in his seat, he rereads the passage he’s trying to focus on again, without success. Owloise looks up from where they’re sitting diagonally across him at the desk they’ve claimed for themselves, but he keeps his eye lights fixed on his paper. He’s not up for engaging in casual conversation while his thoughts circle around a very specific moment approximately five days ago. 

It feels like your fingers are still ghosting over his body, spreading warmth and delicious sensation in their wake. He kept looking for opportunities to perhaps spirit you away again for another opportunity to experience this kind of intimacy with you before, but unfortunately the obligations of your and his work had left little room for even short stolen moments together. So most of his explorations into the realm of human sexual practises had been by himself up until now. And the more he experimented, the more he actually found he liked it, no matter how deviant his culture deemed it to be. 

His frequent trips into his private workshop to do private things of a different nature are even the reason for his current presence at the laboratory; he had slacked off too much and didn’t finish his workload in time, so now he has to catch up even though it’s the weekend. Owloise had graciously offered their help and he really appreciates that, because there’s a family picnic planned for today and he’d hate to miss that and he’d hate to attend it while remembering that stacks of paper are waiting for him here to return to afterwards even more. 

“I think that was all for today,” Owloise announces suddenly, startling Sans out of his contemplation of both the lewd nature of his current obsession and his vivid fantasies of your fingers on his ribcage. 

“oh. yeah. nice,” he comments, filing the last paper in his hand onto the appropriate pile. “thanks, buddy. i owe you one.” He means that, he really does because not only did they agree to sacrifice a part of their weekend to make up for his laziness, his performance has been atrocious even today which they don’t deserve at all. Owloise is a stellar intern, who deserves an equally stellar researcher to work under, not one like Sans who wasn’t the best choice to begin with and has now steadily traipsed into the realm of terrible what with his undue distraction thanks to you and your human fingers and your human orgasms and stars above he needs another break. 

“Are you alright?” Owloise asks him, cocking their head in a manner resembling the bird they look like. 

“yeah. just kinda tired recently. lot of stuff goin’ on,” Sans says evasively, banking on the fact that Owloise will likely understand this to mean your absence and subsequent adoption of Frisk, and the return of the prince who now lives in his household. He sees his guess confirmed in their expression when they nod. 

“Of course. Please don’t let me keep you.” They stand from their seat and prepare to leave the usual way. 

“bye.”

Sans just takes a shortcut, directly into his workshop where he falls onto his couch immediately with a groan. 

Terrible, this is terrible, he’s an addict left to his own devices, he has no self control. But how can he be expected to control himself when the thought of you haunts him so? The feeling of your lips against his skull, alternatively nuzzling and kissing him. Your wet tongue on his vertebrae. Your fingers and your nails, stroking on and between his ribs and behind his clavicle and _inside_ his ribcage, trailing down his spine, towards his sacrum...

He hadn’t even notices his hands wandering onto his ribcage, but there they are now, slipping under his shirt to imitate your movements as best as he can. It’s impossible for him to reach inside his ribcage, but he can stroke the ribs and his lower spine at least. A sharp gasp leaves his mouth, followed by a wave of embarrassment at his own behaviour. 

The contrast between his shame and his lust ultimately just heightens the physical sensation.

He can’t stand it anymore. Thoughts about propriety and dignity fly out of the window as he wrenches his shorts down to expose his pelvis. 

You had - 

You had touched him here - 

He grunts and bites hard into the upholstery of the armrest when his distal phalanges drag and dip over the holes in his sacrum, each movement producing a soft click and a sensation of sparks that travels up his spine only to burst somewhere at the back of his skull. It’s not the same as when you had done it. Your fingers were much softer. But it’s still so good, so good.

The logistics of it elude him in his frenzy, but eventually he manages to pull a corner of his shorts into the hollow of his pelvic bone, rubbing it against the sensitive inside. That’s still not the sensation of your delicate, warm skin against his bones, alive with the pulse of your human heartbeat, but it comes a little closer and that’s good enough. 

While his left hand is occupied down there he uses the right to rake his fingers through his ribs, curling them to stroke the back of the bones. The angle isn’t as good, but it will have to do. It works. Stars above, it _works_. It feels like a matchstick being struck and bursting into flame, rough and visceral and basal in a way that intimacy involving souls could never be. Understandable, why it’s so lewd.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. 

The thought leaves his mind voluntarily as he picks up the pace, the friction teetering inevitably towards painful the faster he gets. He doesn’t want it to be painful, he just needs that burst of sensation again that you had given him, the one that felt like seeing stars and the ocean tide towing him under and dragging him away and like a burst of magic manifesting into the most complex lattice of bullets imaginable. 

Close, so close now, it feels so good, it’s painful, it’s too rough but he doesn’t want to stop can’t stop won’t stop - 

Sans feels his body shake and stiffen as the kick hits him, that burst of static on all his senses that warrants a recovery nap all by itself because it leaves him so exhausted. He falls back onto the sofa, breathing heavily into the couch. He should probably stop biting it. 

For a while, he only breathes, lets the aftershocks of please tingle him. 

It was good. 

But it wasn’t _good enough_. 

He can still feel the heat deep in his bones, pulsing through his marrow as if he had acquired a heartbeat of his own, conglomerating in his pelvis. It had been too rough, he can’t do it like this. You had just. You had been so _soft_ and _warm_ and your mouth so _wet_ … it’s an intensity he can’t match all by himself. 

Can he?

Shit. 

He has a few ideas of what might grant him a greater intensity but that would involve a certain organ being summoned and that. That’s too much. Probably. It’s the first time he’s even considering it, because apart from the incredible perversion of what he’s thinking of, it had also always seemed like way too much effort for him. But now he has already learned that the effort invested into physical fulfillment of sexual desire is well worth it, so perhaps he can overcome his inclination to follow the path of least resistance and instead try something new. 

Rolling onto his back nearly sends him falling off the sofa, this thing is really way too narrow and he should probably look into something more spacious soon if he wants to keep using the couch this way. Especially if he wants to use the couch together with you. 

Which he most certainly does, no matter how much that embarrasses him.

He’s allowing himself to become distracted. Time to focus back on the matter at hand. Most of his bones are already exposed, with his shirt pushed up under his arms and his shorts lowered until the patella. It allows him a good look of what’s going on. Some parts of his pelvis are slightly flushed; his sacrum where he rubbed it, and his pubis in particular. He swallows roughly when he sees the blue colour concentrating there. 

It’s almost enough to make him stop because even that suggestion of what he’s about to do nearly has him bury his head in the ground and never mind that he’d have to smash his skull through a layer of tiles and solid concrete to do so. But to leave with this burn still inside of him, this unfulfilled desire - impossible. 

His body demands for him to go on. 

It shouldn’t take him much effort. He’s already so aroused and he has plenty of magic to spare. His eye sockets close halfway as he thinks of you, of how soft you are and how good you smell and how it felt to have you touch him, while another part of his mind tries to direct the rush of magic coursing through him downwards. 

It turns out to be as easy as it’s said to be. 

One moment, there is nothing but the bone of his pelvis there, and then the next the blue colour staining the white surface rises, solidifies and shapes itself into an elongated shape just like in the textbooks he used to see when he first learned about human anatomy during his advanced education.

Blue like his magic, smooth and mostly featureless. Inoffensive. He knows from the other pictures, the ones in the magazines he smuggled from the dump as a teenager, that this isn’t what the real ones look like. It’s similar, but not quite there. Will that bother you? He could probably push himself and change the details, maybe even the general shape and length. 

But for now, he won’t. 

This first time is for him. He’s going to be selfish and just take it as it is. 

It’s not _bad_ , after all, he decides as he lifts his head a bit to get a better look. Lewd, yeah, and featureless in comparison to the original ones. But it feels right for him, if such things can feel right. It’s not too big and not too small, to him it feels just fitting for someone his size. A bit plump, maybe, which he also finds fits him. He looks plump too, when he wears clothes. 

Looking at it this abstractly makes it easier to take the sight in, to ignore that what he’s doing is anything but proper. That illusion gets completely shattered when a small bead of liquid appears at the top, collecting until it has swollen in size enough to begin dripping down his length. 

Sans can feel his face heat up watching this. He can feel it dripping down and the little tickle of sensation is enough to tell him that this brand new organ is so sensitive that it would feel _amazing_ if he touched it, maybe even more amazing that stroking his pubis or the holes in his sacrum. 

There’s a moment where he isn’t sure if he can bring himself to touch it, but shit, he’s come this far already, and that tickling sensation of the liquid running down the shaft is so tantalising that he finds himself capable of ignoring his burning shame. Tentatively, Sans reaches out with his left hand and touches the tip with his distal phalanges. 

A whine immediately leaves his mouth. Fuck, he was right about the sensitivity. This is even more than he thought it would be. _Fuck_.

The next course of action is so obvious and desperately necessary it takes no thought at all. 

He wraps his hand around the shaft, still slowly and carefully, getting a feel for the sensation and the weight of the conjured flesh. He gives it a tentative squeeze and moans. More liquid spills from the top, he’s not sure what that’s for, he thinks this is called precum but he didn’t know he’d be producing this, that hadn’t been in the monster textbooks. Does he produce it because he has human traits in his soul, because he’s not quite a normal monster, or is this something for all the monsters? He’d really love to know, but it’s not like he can ask somebody. 

It’s good to have though, smearing it over his shaft makes the testing up and down motion of his hand slicker and smoother, easing him into a slow, lazy, comfortable rhythm. It’s wet, just like your mouth had been when you licked over his bones. 

That. The thought of you, the wetness of your mouth, combined with the slick feeling of him stroking himself. 

His head falls back and his own mouth opens. 

“fffuck…” 

This is so much better than just touching his bones. His body is on fire, a continuous combustion that leaves him bereft of thought and any sensation but the one in his pelvis, in his cock, the sensation of a slick, wet, hot up and down and up and down and up and down, faster. Sans can feel his rib cage expanding and contracting rapidly as he desperately gasps for breath, the all-encompassing feelings too intense for him to breathe properly. A whine wretches itself out of his throat and and he nearly chokes on it, and in a brief flash of panic he yanks his hand away, so he can just lie and gulp down some actual oxygen for a few moments. The sudden loss of the sensation is almost as terrible as the illusion of asphyxiation that preceded it and he whines again, bottoming out into a deep moan when his hand returns its position. 

He can’t stop. 

He _can’t_.

He’s scared, this is so intense, too intense, but it’s so good and his cock is twitching. 

Faster, faster, his arm is tired but it’s impossible to stop now, his spine is arching clear off the couch as his body goes rigid, he’s huffing for breath and moaning and his voice is careening past his usual register into increasingly higher and desperate, loud cries that he’s glad nobody can hear, he’s glad he is alone, except he isn’t because if this were _you_ -

 _Your hand on his cock with your warm and soft skin and your twitching muscles and your pulse you’re so good and he loves you so much_ -

“p-please, please, fuck, i, oh my gosh _ohfuckme_ \- “

It feels like something snaps, bursts into blinding light and heat like a supernova, Sans doesn’t know what’s happening, but with a hoarse scream, his entire body locks up and he, he feels like he’s dying in an indescribable crescendo of bliss. 

He would regret it if he were still cognizant, and if it didn’t feel so fucking good. 

There is nothing but that feeling. 

And then the aftershocks. 

And then he lies there, still, with tears gathering at the corners of his eye sockets, slipping over his zygomatic arches. 

For some strange reason, he doesn’t seem to be disintegrating into dust after all, which he can’t comprehend because surely his body was never meant to hold so much sensation and something must have short-circuited. He intends to take a deep breath and on the exhale he vocalises, a low sound of wondrous, satisfied, tremulous fulfillment. 

His hand is wet. 

Sans looks down at his hand in confusion. It’s covered in a sticky, light blue substance that’s quickly evaporating. More blue gunk is spattered all over his pelvis, his femurs and his lumbar vertebrae. His cock is nowhere to be seen. He has no idea why it dissolved already. 

“ew,” he murmurs, voice still hoarse from his scream. 

Now that his faculties slowly return from their brief vacation into blissful oblivion, Sans is beginning to feel again increasingly embarrassed and also vaguely grossed out by his recent set of actions. Stars, he didn’t even summon his soul to cling to at least a simulacrum of decency! What’s wrong with him?

Quite a few things, apparently, led by his recently developed insatiable taste for human intercourse. 

But it did feel really good. Especially at the end, when he had thought about you.

At least the mess seems to be taking care of itself, vanishing slowly as his spent magic has no reason to stick around anymore, leaving only a faint blue tint where it clung to him. A stain of magic so concentrated and potent that the colour remained even after the magic itself had disintegrated. He’s definitely going to need a shower, and he’s saying that as a guy who sometimes likes to skip on the odd shower or two if he’s feeling particularly lazy. 

If only he wasn’t so tired all of a sudden. This physical stuff really takes a lot out of him. It’s not entirely clear to him if that’s a regular occurrence during human sexual activities or if that’s just him and his weak constitution. Like so often in life, the truth probably falls somewhere between those two extremes. 

Sans isn’t sure how much time he spends laying there, breathing, staring at his hand and allowing his thoughts to drift by as they come. It doesn’t feel long at all but then when he manages to arrange his sluggish limbs into a position that allows him to push himself up into a sitting position, he suddenly feels really hungry and that tells him that it must have been more time than he thought. His metabolism relies strongly on the regular magic from his food intake and even with the magic he expended during the, uh, little _explosion_ at the end there, he wouldn’t feel this hungry if it wasn’t past his time for a meal. 

“shit,” he curses quietly. He isn’t late for the picnic, is he? What time is it, even? He internally curses his own sloppiness for leaving his cellphone behind in his room, rendering him unable to check. Carefully, he rearranges his clothes into their regular state of being. Shirt down, pants up, smooth them both out a little and he’s left looking casual if fairly rumpled, but that’s par for the course for him even on a regular day. 

He might not get to take a shower after all. Shit. 

He’s an idiot. 

Can he pretend not to feel well? Walking around with the stains of his aberrant - _amazing and fulfilling_ \- foray into human sexuality still present on his bones, albeit hidden underneath his clothes, is more than he currently feels capable of stomaching. Not that he has a stomach. Heh. Regardless, he had only felt curious, and admittedly extremely needy, he hadn’t planned for his actions to result in a day spent in self-conscious contemplation of whether or not everyone could see the marks of his deviant behaviour on him. He doesn’t want this. 

But when he pops into the house, thinking that maybe if he’s quick enough, he could at least sneak in a short session in the bathroom with his bristle brush if not a full shower, he’s instead met by everyone else already waiting. 

Shit. 

Play it cool, Sans. Nobody knows. Nobody can see his shame.

 _Hopefully_.

“SANS, COME ON YOU LAZY BONES, WE'RE WAITING!” Papyrus exclaims with his hands on his hip bones.

“ ‘m here, bro,” Sans replies, shuffling up next to his brother and trying not to feel like absolute filthy scum at standing next to his own sibling with his bones stained like that, stars above, he needs a ditch to throw himself into. With his arrival, the group is complete. Yep. No shower for him. Shit.

“DON’T TELL ME YOU WERE ASLEEP AGAIN! REALLY, BROTHER, YOU ARE GETTING MORE AND MORE LAZY BY THE DAY!”

“heh. what can i say. ‘m just bone tired,” Sans insists. He notices too late that that’s exactly what you had said to him after the last time you had snuck away. Uh oh. He decides he better doesn’t look at you, because he is embarrassed enough already and he’s absolutely sure that should his eye lights meet your eyes, his skull is going to combust into a blue so dark it will collapse onto itself until it forms a black hole and tears a hole into reality.

Instead, he chooses to stay silent and follow everyone else, trying and failing not to be aware of what he looks like underneath his clothes. What worries him even more is the amount of effort it takes him not to just throw all caution and propriety into the wind and grab you so he can bring you back Underground and do unspeakable things to you that he just barely had his first taste of. What does that even say about him. Here he is, bones stained with the evidence of his shame, _in public_ , and all he wants is more. 

You’ve ruined him. 

And you don’t even know yet.

And a part of him feels _turned on_ by that.

 _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: 100% UNFILTERED SMUT. Masturbation involving bones and a penis, slight exhibitionism kink at the end maybe??
> 
> :)


	19. Soul Brother Situation [Papyrus]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Comes with a main chapter! Reading order doesn't matter.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/26324397)

Papyrus strides across the plaza with great purpose, like one does when one is a very important skeleton with a very important job on a very important mission. The container with his most recent batch of spaghetti, carefully prepared under the tutelage of the Queen herself, he holds clutched tightly in both of his hands, except for those moments where he greets a monster and is greeted back, which is constantly, so he's holding the container with mostly just the one hand actually. 

“Hey Paps,” Mike greets him when he enters the gatehouse. “Lunchtime already?”

The human looks happy at the prospect, which in turn makes Papyrus happy, that the punctual fulfillment of his routine brings a small amount of joy to this man. He has taught Papyrus how to drive, is still sometimes giving him lessons on the parking lot, and Papyrus likes to repay this kindness where he can. 

“YES, IT IS INDEED THE TIME FOR LUNCH!”

“Aw, sweet,” Mike sighs, stretching and getting up from the desk he was working at. “Sans should be in the lab, didn't see him leave.”

That is a good sign; although Sans sometimes uses his shortcuts to take quick, unscheduled breaks from his work heaven knows where, he generally tries not to skip past the check-in the humans had set up in the gatehouse. He doesn't want to aggravate them too much, since they are looking out for everyone's safety.

“THANK YOU! HAVE A GOOD MEAL!”

Mike gives him a wave and turns towards the room where the human soldiers eat together, while Papyrus hurries along, going through the checkpoint so he can leave the gatehouse impatiently. He doesn't want his brother to think he would be late! He speeds up as he reaches the laboratory, almost running through the entry hall past the startled receptionist - he doesn't understand why she is startled, as he dashes in here almost every day when his brother is working - and further along until he reaches his brother's office. 

The thought still makes his ribcage swell with pride. 

His brother! Having an office of his very own!! 

And it's so well deserved, because Sans has worked so very hard!

Papyrus throws the door open, startling his brother where he sits at his desk, fiddling with one of his glass thingamabobs. He manages not to drop it, which Papyrus takes as a sign that he doesn't need to apologise. 

“SO HARD AT WORK I SEE! WELL FRET NOT BROTHER! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS HERE TO TELL YOU THAT IT IS TIME FOR AN OFFICIAL, SANCTIONED BREAK WITH AN OFFICIAL, SANCTIONED PLATE OF SPAGHETTI!”

“hey pap,” Sans chuckles. “great timing as always.”

“BUT OF COURSE! WHEN HAS THE GREAT PAPYRUS EVER BEEN ANYTHING BUT PERFECTLY AND PERSISTENTLY PUNCTUAL?” Papyrus exclaims, his cape fluttering behind him in a magical, nonexistent wind. 

“there was that one time where you refused to believe that clocks could go wrong ‘n complained about all of the underground bein’ tardy,” Sans chuckles.

“WE DON'T TALK ABOUT THAT TIME!” Papyrus squawks, flustered that his brother would bring this up. Had they not sworn a brotherly oath?! The betrayal is insurmountable. 

“whoops.”

“DON'T MAKE ME WITHHOLD THE LUNCH SPAGHETTI, SANS!”

“no, no, mercy.”

Papyrus huffs, ignoring the way his brother is still grinning, and sets down the container with the spaghetti on Sans’ desk as soon as the space is cleared. He takes a seat on the second chair that his brother has stowed away in a corner for him - there is always a second chair for Papyrus, regardless of where Sans is working at any given time - and looks at his brother expectantly. 

When Sans opens the container, steam rises from the inside, spreading the savoury smell of the dish through the room. 

“bro, this smells amazing,” Sans says, genuine appreciation on his face. Papyrus beams and hands Sans the fork he brought with him, watching his brother even more expectantly now. Sans wastes no time and scoops up some of the spaghetti, stuffing his mouth as full as he can. The savage. But it's all forgiven when his brother sighs happily, his eyes falling shut as he savours the taste. 

“WELL?” Papyrus prods. 

“good. ‘s really, really good. you improved a lot.” Sans’ eye sockets open and reveal that his eye lights are wide and bright and sharp, happy and full of pride. Papyrus feels the familiar, comforting prickle of joy that always accompanies a genuine compliment, especially those of his brother. Still, he has a reputation to maintain.

“NYEH HEH HEH! OF COURSE I DID, SANS! WAS THERE EVER ANY DOUBT?”

“nah. never,” Sans replies easily. He's completely sincere. Sans truly did always believe that Papyrus could achieve anything if he just wanted to, and that calm and steady confidence never faltered, even when Papyrus’ own… 

But he does not want to think about that. Instead, Papyrus watches his brother shovel more of his spaghetti into his mouth, savouring each bite. Sans looks especially relaxed today. His movements are easy and languid, there's no tension in his spine and he seems energetic and happy in a certain way. Papyrus, being generally rather less naive and unobservant than others give him credit for, comes to the most obvious conclusion about the reason for his brother's state of being. 

“WAS IT FUN LAST NIGHT?”

Sans, in a rare display actual unsettlement, chokes on his spaghetti. Papyrus isn't entirely sure why, it's a reasonable question! He wants his brother to have fun!

“p-pap, i, uh - “

“WITH THE HUMAN, I MEAN, WHEN YOU BOTH VANISHED FOR HOURS TO PRESUMABLY CANOODLE AND DO STARS KNOWS WHAT ELSE AT WHATEVER PLACE IT IS YOU GO TO FOR THAT,” Papyrus clarifies, just in case there has been misunderstanding and that's why Sans reacts so strangely. But no, if anything his brother looks even more shocked than he did before, staring at Papyrus with abject horror. He's also blushing a lot. Wowie! He's seen Sans flustered before, a natural consequence of living in close quarters with him for years, but he never looked like this during those times! 

“why do you even know about that stuff,” Sans eventually chokes out. Now, Papyrus usually isn’t one for rolling his eyes, mostly because he has neither eyes nor those convenient little lights Sans has to convey the gesture properly, but at this statement he still pulls his most aggravated expression, the one that would be an eye roll if it could be one. 

“SANS, EVEN BEFORE UNDYNE TOLD ME ABOUT THE WHIMSUNS AND THE ECHO FLOWERS LAST YEAR, DID YOU HONESTLY THINK YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE TO SMUGGLE HUMAN MAGAZINES OUT OF THE DUMP IN A FIT OF VIOLENTLY HORMONAL REBELLION?” 

Papyrus and Sans stare at each other, the smell of spaghetti wafting between them, the dish entirely forgotten for now. 

“you learned about… human… from those magazines?!” Sans sounds as if he personally wants to set the dump on fire, which Papyrus finds a tad much, all things considered. 

“I WOULDN’T SAY LEARNED, THEY WEREN’T THAT INFORMATIVE. UNDYNE DID A MUCH BETTER JOB AT EXPLAINING THINGS! THERE WERE JUST A LOT OF BOOBIES! AND OTHER BODY PARTS! AND SMOOCHES! SOMETIMES THE SMOOCHES WERE ON THE BOOBIES AND THE BODY PARTS!” Papyrus explains cheerfully. 

“i actually want to die,” Sans says, completely deadpan while his skull is still blue. “this is the worst conversation we’ve ever had.”

“REALLY? WORSE THAN THE ONE WHERE YOU HAD TO TELL ME FLUFFY BUNNY ISN’T REAL AND I CRIED SO MUCH THAT I HYPERVENTILATED AND YOU HAD TO DO BREATHING EXERCISES WITH ME BEFORE I SUFFOCATED IN THE MOST EMBARRASSING MANNER POSSIBLE AND THEN YOU STARTED CRYING BECAUSE YOU HAD BEEN SO WORRIED?” 

“yeah. yeah, it is.”

“I THINK YOU’RE OVERREACTING! SO WHAT IF I KNOW ABOUT YOUR SOCIALLY NOT ACCEPTED INTERSPECIES BEDROOM SHENANIGANS! I’M ONLY ASKING BECAUSE I LIKE TO SEE YOU HAPPY!” Papyus insists. 

Sans has, at this point, buried his face in his hands, elbows set on the table. 

“ok. i’m very happy. can we stop this now?”

“SANS! I’M VERY SERIOUS!”

“so am i,” Sans mumbles, peeking out between his phalanges and regarding Papyrus with a look he finds hard to understand. 

Papyrus has never been as good as his brother when it comes to reading faces. Understanding and interpreting the minuscule changes in another’s expression was something that Papyrus had tried doing, but for the most part it eludes him. No, what he excels at is something else. 

Papyrus excels at knowing people. 

He knows what makes them tick, what drives them, what their pet peeves are, which buttons he has to push to annoy or flatter. Unfortunately, knowing people also generally includes, well, _knowing_ people, as in, getting to know them at least a little bit and build a basis for him to work off. Which he admittedly isn’t always quite so good at, even though he has recently improved. 

The point is, Papyrus knows Sans. He knows him very well. Sans may not always tell Papyrus everything, sometimes because Sans wants to keep Papyrus happy, and sometimes because Sans can’t. But for the things that count, Papyrus knows his brother. 

“YOU’RE HAPPY, WHEN YOU’RE WITH HER,” Papyrus explains. “IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU HAPPY.”

Sans slowly lowers his hands from his face, regarding him thoughtfully. 

“i’ve been happy before too,” he argues. 

“NOT LIKE THIS.” Papyrus hopes that Sans can see what he means on his face, because he has no idea how to explain it. 

He doesn’t know how to explain what he felt when he watched his older brother feed him when they were in the lab, where they know they have lived for years and yet can’t remember half of it. How he felt when he watched Sans rummage through the trash while not allowing his brother to come close to the filth. How he felt when his brother took a job and cared for Papyrus on the side. How he felt when Sans worked a job and studied and took care of Papyrus when Papyrus wasn’t in school. How he felt when Sans worked two jobs and studied on the side and Papyrus tried to help but he was too young and so his brother still had to take care of him. How he felt when Sans worked three jobs and still cared for Papyrus, how he felt at seeing his brother exhausted but still making time for him even when it cost him sleep. How he felt when he tried very hard to become cool and popular not just for his own sake, but also because if he became a famous and admired royal guardsman, he would earn a lot of money and then his brother wouldn’t have to work quite so hard anymore and be perhaps a little less exhausted.

How Papyrus felt when Sans quit one of his jobs, arguably the best one of all of them, and then quit his only passion right with it, never touching a book about science again. 

How he felt while he watched his brother being overcome by an altogether different exhaustion, one that went deeper than just a lack of sleep, one that seemed to nestle in his soul and eat away at the core of who his brother was, and Papyrus didn’t know why, or what it was, or how to stop it. He just knew that monsters whose souls grew tired like that eventually _fell down_ and his brother’s soul was already so frail, he couldn’t allow that and so he stepped up, finally stepped up as the adult he had barely become even if his age claimed otherwise, and he did the laundry and cleaned the house Sans had bought them with the money he worked too hard for and fed the pet rock when Sans kept forgetting. And above all he kept nagging his brother, pushed him out of the house and out of the bed and kept telling him not to be so lazy and not to sleep so much, because Papyrus was _scared_ of that exhaustion, so so scared that one day, his big brother who had done so much for him and whom he loved above anything else in the whole Underground and the whole world just wouldn’t wake up anymore. 

Papyrus knew his brother and he had noticed that this soul deep exhaustion had come with a slow but steady withering of his brother’s happiness. Sans smiled, Sans laughed, Sans was content. 

But he wasn’t happy. 

Just exhausted, and Papyrus kept worrying and feeling scared and helpless and useless for several long, long years, too many days where he didn’t know if this was the day where ‘i’m taking a nap’ would actually become ‘i won’t come back’ and he’d be all alone, left with his soul shattered from the loss. They never talked about it. Papyrus didn’t know what to say, and Sans… he didn’t know how Sans decided what to tell him and what to keep to himself. But Sans didn’t speak about it either. 

And then the human fell and the barrier broke. And Sans smiled a true smile for the first time in a long, long while, when he first saw the sky, when he and his brother looked at each other ecstatic that they had made it here together.

And then _you_ came, and Sans smiled that smile more often, and of course Frisk also helped a lot by making sure things worked out alright which gave everyone hope, and the whole thing of being on the surface helped too the longer they were up here, but you definitely play a big, big part in his brother’s mental wellbeing. Papyrus isn’t stupid and he knows his brother, and so when Sans starts seeking your company and looks progressively happier whenever he spends time with you Papyrus can put two and two together. And he can especially put two and two together when the two of you vanish for hours and then come back looking like you smoked two dog treats too many with your grins silly like that. 

Papyrus doesn’t care what monsters or humans think of your and Sans’ relationship. He doesn’t care if anyone thinks it’s lewd or gross or wrong. All he cares about is that Sans looks so much less exhausted, so _happy_. 

That’s why the judgement actually makes him quite angry. How dare they judge his brother like that? How dare they judge his good friend like that? The two of you are good together. He truly wishes that Sans didn’t have to feel so embarrassed about his canoodling with you, or that you didn’t have to hide your relationship because then the humans might take Frisk away again. 

He wants both of you to be allowed to be happy together, but especially Sans, because if he has anything to say about it Sans can never fall into that state he was in before, ever again. Papyrus won’t allow it. He has done so much to try and support his brother, to help the two of you along where he could. 

So when he says now that Sans is happy, when he wants to know if his brother had fun, it’s for a good reason. A very good reason. 

Sans is still staring at him, his expression now soft and devoid of embarrassment. 

“pap…” 

“IT’S OKAY. YOU DON’T HAVE TO TELL ME IF YOU DON’T WANT TO. I JUST ASKED BECAUSE I CARE. BUT HONESTLY, SEEING YOU SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT AGAIN IS ENOUGH,” Papyrus tells his brother, not wanting him to feel that he has to speak out if it’s too much. His brother has always been more private than Papyrus himself is. 

“...yeah. it was fun,” Sans admits quietly, the blush only faintly returning to his zygomatic arches. Mostly he still looks soft, and filled with the kind of affection that only ever appears on Sans’ face for Papyrus, the love of a brother who truly and genuinely cares about his sibling. “i’m happy.”

“GOOD, GOOD, THAT’S GOOD, THAT’S ALL I WANTED TO KNOW REALLY - “

Papyrus suddenly finds himself wrapped up in a soft hug. His brother is too small to reach his shoulders comfortably, even when they both sit down, so Sans is hugging his ribcage instead. Papyrus immediately hugs him back. A good hug can not be left unreturned, especially not from his brother.

“thanks for caring, bro. you’re so cool. i love you,” Sans mumbles against the white fabric of Papyrus’ battle body and Papyrus pretends not to notice how choked up Sans’ voice has gotten. 

He himself is of course not crying, because he is a paragon of a monster and far too composed and stoically cool to cry. 

“I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH TOO, BROTHER,” Papyrus bawls, big fat tears dropping from his eye sockets onto his brother’s skull. 

They hug it out for a moment longer and then Sans pulls back, wiping a sleeve over his eye sockets while looking faintly embarrassed again. Well, he should be! What an undignified manner of behaviour! Papyrus pulls out a cotton handkerchief, a fresh one of which he always carries in the back pocket of his shorts all neatly pressed and folded, and uses it to dab at all that liquid that somehow ended up on his face, probably by way of Sans’ tears floating upwards and gathering on Papyrus’ skull. 

“should get back to the spaghetti before they get cold,” Sans says, turning back to the container on his desk. 

“OR BEFORE THE LUNCH BREAK ENDS!” Papyrus adds. “I WON’T ALLOW YOU TO USE ME AS AN EXCUSE TO EXTEND IT AGAIN!”

“heh. shame.”

“SANS, DON’T BE SO LAZY!”

“nah. promise, bro.”


	20. A Fish with Diamond Eyes [Undyne]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, remember that chapter about Chara when I said it was the worst I've ever written? I'm not saying this one is actually worse, but hoo boy, it sure is some steep competition.
> 
>  
> 
> [Comes with a main chapter, reading order doesn't matter.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/27126210)

Waterfall is quiet. Even the echo flowers have stopped whispering to each other. No more wishes. The waterfalls are still loud. And she can hear water lapping against the riverbanks. That makes it hard to listen for the one sound she actually wants to hear. 

Undyne kneels in the high reed grass close to a path that leads to the main road towards Hotland. Anyone who wants to go through the Underground has to pass this spot. That's why it's perfect to lie in wait. 

The rest of Waterfall has been evacuated, and she knows that from Hotland, the royal guard is on its way to intercept… it. 

The _human_.

A human in the Underground, in her own lifetime!

It's the sixth soul they need. The second to last before they'll go free. She's always hoped this would happen, has prayed it would. It wasn't guaranteed. After so many humans have already fallen it wouldn't be surprising if the humans just stopped coming to the mountain completely. That's what Gerson said anyway, and he's a legend. He fought the humans personally so he has to know. He's the hammer of justice!

Undyne can only hope she'll earn a name as cool.

Pah!

She will!

She knows it, she will, that's why she's here. 

This human has killed in cold blood every monster it encountered in Snowdin forest and Snowdin Town and it hasn't slowed down in Waterfall until the evacuation. Killed in cold blood. That's a good sentence. Humans have blood and monsters don't. Maybe that's what makes them so evil. The human deserves to die. And Undyne will bring it down. She'll defeat this creature, take its soul and become a hero. All the monsters will say so.

First though, she needs to find it. 

Patience has never been her strong suit. She's always more of a go and get kind of girl, but this is different. This is important. And besides, Undyne isn't a little kid anymore. Things are different now. She's fifteen now, and that means she's almost grown up! Right? For some monsters, fifteen is being an adult and for some fifteen means being like a teenager and that's almost as good as an adult. Her teachers always put Undyne together with the five year old wolves and cats and dogs, who have the same short build she does. Undyne doesn't really understand that. All those different ways of aging are weird. Not weird, dumb! Obviously they just don't see how grown up she already is. She's not a baby anymore!

She'll prove it, once the human comes. 

She'll show them all. 

They all laughed at her when she went to Asgore and couldn't defeat him. But that's just because he's so freakishly big. The humans are small is what Gerson says. And Asgore is training her now! So she'll do it. She'll kill the human. And then everyone will be safe and they'll have that soul and soon they'll be free. And she'll see the _sky_ and the _sun_ and the _stars_. It's gonna be awesome. She can't wait -

There!

There, she hears grass rustling!

_The human is right there!_

Undyne swears her soul begins to tremble in her chest. Her magic is humming. It's almost too much, almost painful. She's sweating a little. But just because she's so excited! It's her time now. The rustling gets louder. Crunching, there are feet walking on the path. 

Then she sees the human. 

What?

That's _all_?

Everyone talked about it like it was so scary. The big bad human like in stories. Like the ones the teachers tell. And it killed so many monsters so that's what Undyne thought it would be like but it isn't. It's only a little bit taller than Undyne. Not as short and scrawny. It has its hair in a tight bun and is smiling and it has no claws or sharp teeth that Undyne can see. It's skinny and it's wearing a pink dress with a weird frilly stiff skirt and matching pink shoes that are bound to its feet with ribbons. It looks silly, but also not. The shoes and skirt are dusty. She knows what kind of dust this is. Not the normal kind. The other kind. The kind that was monsters before. Now she doesn't want to laugh about the frilly skirt anymore. Undyne is angry now. 

She jumps out of her patch of grass onto the path. 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” she shouts. 

Like a fighter. But it sounds too high. Her magic is still making her feel icky and sweaty. 

The human doesn't even flinch. Instead, it smiles wider at her. It spreads its arms like inviting her. 

Now Undyne is even more mad, because it's like the human is making fun of her. She'll show it! She knows how to fight! Because she can make magic bullets already better than anyone else in her class because they're all still making round ones and she can make hers pointy and long like spears. Her teachers say that means she's pre, pre, preconscious or something. It doesn't matter. 

She makes a sharp and pointy bullet and reaches out with her magic to make them go into an encounter like she learned. 

Everything goes dark and they're in the dark together. In the encounter. There’s the human's soul. Undyne heard humans have their souls out in encounters but she's still surprised. She's never seen a soul before because you're not supposed to show and she can't make her own one come out yet and the human ones Asgore has collected are secret. It's so blue. The human's soul is the bluest blue she's ever seen. The human's teeth are glowing ultraviolet in the dark of the encounter. 

She gathers her magic for another spear and shoots two bullets at the human's soul, two at once crossing their flight path in the middle. Like a proper pattern. Almost. 

The human bows it's upper body back and her shot misses. 

What?

No!

That's not how it works, monsters don't do that. You can't just move away in an encounter, not when the shot was meant to hit! But the human just did. It snaps out of the twisted posture and uses the momentum. 

The human makes its legs all weird and stiff and hops.

It lands on its toes.

It twirls. 

The foot comes at Undyne so fast she barely has the time to think, but - 

It’s like time slows down and her thoughts speed up. There are rules in an encounter. Rules Undyne has learned. The rules are magic and binding, you can’t just do what you want. Everyone has to follow them. But if the human can, then maybe… maybe she can, too. It feels like honey in her thoughts, slow and sticky but she can duck, can’t she, her body just has to move fast now. If she doesn’t she’ll get hurt. She’ll get hurt really bad, she can tell. The human wants to hurt her, wants to kill her. She doesn’t want that so she has to focus. 

It’s a fire inside her. Inside her soul. But the burn makes the honey go away and Undyne can _move_.

She ducks just in time before the kick hits her. The foot moves over her head instead. It makes a wind above her head and her hair whips with it. 

That was close!

For one moment, Undyne feels exhilarated. She's burning, she's fast, she's fighting a human and overcoming the _rules of an encounter_. For just a single moment, she feels like the hero she wants to be.

But then.

Another twirl with one leg and foot outstretched to kick. 

Fast, too fast, it's coming at her again, Undyne drops completely and rolls over the floor. Sideways, away from it and standing up again. Her turn. 

Wait. 

Did it kick her twice?!

Undyne stares at the human and can't believe it. To ignore the rules in order to evade is huge. But to _attack twice_? Several bullets in one attack, sure. But the magic inherent in encounters tells her this was two attacks after another, not one attack with multiple steps. 

This is wrong. 

The excitement is gone in an instant and Undyne feels scared. 

No wonder monsters fear humans.

They aren't bound by the same magic that forces monsters to fight fair in encounters. The burning in Undyne’s soul allowed her to evade too but… she isn't sure that will be good enough anymore. The dust on the skirt and shoes is distinctly vibrant in the darkness. 

No. 

No, she can't think about that!

She won't! She has to win!

It's her turn. Undyne gathers as much magic as she can, much more than she was ever able to use at once before. Her soul is on fire, burning and burning in her chest, she can feel the heat spreading through the magic of her body and her attacks. It feeds the magic. Fuels it. Makes it stronger and gives _more_. 

Spear after spear appears in the air around her. Five, ten, twenty. The strain would knock her out normally but with that burning inside of her it's easy. It's almost too easy, her magic feels slick. Slimy. 

She doesn't care. 

Undyne doesn't have experience with firing that many spears at once. She never had to make a pattern before. When she fires, it's a mess but it turns out it's not so bad. Without rhyme and reason, the spears are harder to dodge. One hits, two, she doesn't count but the blue blue blue soul doesn't manage to evade them all. 

The human is still smiling but it's wild. Angry. A smile that's a threat instead of something friendly with those weird shiny tiny blunt teeth. 

Undyne bares her own razor sharp fangs in return, a shark smile of her own. 

The human twirls and Undyne burns, dodges, jumps back and feels the tip of that dusty shoe graze her chest. 

Not even a hit but it still feels like poison. She has never felt anything like it. The pure and concentrated intent to hurt, to destroy, to kill. It eats its way into her body, her magic and her soul. Her HP drops by half and she gasps in shock. She's never lost HP like this before. Never. Even when she falls or bumps against something, that's not the same. That's not HP damage. 

She's even more scared now, can't help but stare at those dusty clothes. To her shame she wants to cry. She doesn't want to be here anymore. She shouldn't have come. But she has.

She's here.

She can't leave. 

She can't _die_.

The fire in her soul blazes until it hurts and she screams. She doesn't understand what's happening to her but she's too hot, her magic explodes and there's spears everywhere and she feels, she feels slick like water on her skin but also sticky, the kind of sticky that granules of sugar leave on formerly smooth surfaces. 

Did she hit? Miss?

She can't tell because her magic was everywhere for a second and now -

She sees the blur coming. Too fast for anything even with the fire consuming her. There's no escape. 

The dusty shoe _crashes_ into her eye and pushes, she feels it crush the insides of her head, magic and dust and slime spattering outwards as the malevolence of the human ruptures all she is.

There’s an unnatural shriek in the air. Shrill and piercing. Loud. Loud enough to be heard all throughout Waterfall. Perhaps loud enough to echo through all of the Underground. 

Her throat hurts and only then does Undyne understand that this is her.

The scrape of her voice in her throat brings the pain of her eye into focus. The human’s foot slips out of her head with a gush of substances. Something red is there with the magic and the dust and the slime and Undyne doesn’t know what that is. The human must have poisoned her. That’s the only explanation she can think of. It hurts. The red burns where it touches her skin and leaves more slime in its wake. Except the slime is coming from _her_. She can feel herself fracture, splinter into millions of pieces. She can also feel herself melt. She’s dying in two ways at once. 

She doesn’t want to die. 

She wants to live. 

It hurts so much, so much that it would be easier to die probably. But oh stars, she doesn’t want to die, she wants to live and live and live and _live_.

The human actually flinches when Undyne lunges at it, still screaming. She has no idea what she’s doing anymore. Swipes her claws across the human’s soul, tries to bite it and fails. She thinks she scratched its body though. She doesn’t know, half-blinded and melting and falling apart, her senses aren’t all there anymore. 

It’s too much and she falls down, falls to her knees. 

Everything is blurry. The world looks different with just one eye. Flatter. And she’s crying. Oh. That doesn’t help. She needs to see. But for what? For what? Undyne lifts her head and stares up at the human. It’s staring back, looking curious now. Why? She doesn’t understand it. Why? Why does it try to kill her? Why does it hurt her? It hurts _so much_. She lost her eye. _She lost her eye_. It doesn’t matter because she’s dusting anyway. Just like her parents five months ago, when they lost hope. Except they dusted clean and quick, without the fighting and the burning and the melting and the _red red red hot burning red what is this why is it coming out of her why does it make her melt it hurts_. 

This isn’t like a hero in her story. This is just painful. 

She wants her mummy and her other mummy. But they’re dead. She wants Gerson or Asgore maybe, big and warm and fuzzy. But she’s here in Waterfall all alone. Only her and the human. She thought she can win. Maybe she still can? Something still burns. She can’t give up yet. She can’t. 

Reaching out.

Hand shaking. Flakes of dust falling off. Wavering, that’s, that’s the melting, she’s, she’s not, she’s not, her body isn’t holding together anymore it’s all leaking out like slime and _red_ and her tears and she can’t see. Blurry. Blue. Just out of reach of her hand, the bluest blue she’s ever seen, so blue, and on her, _red_ , more red than any other red in the whole Underground, red and blue and red and blue and and and _blazing white_.

White bullets. 

Hammers. 

One, two, three, all striking true, catching the blue as it tries to twist away. Something snaps. The darkness lifts. Greys and blues and greens, blending. Her own breath sounds so loud. Every breath still hurts. She’s still - she’s still here. The world falls and spins, or is that her? She doesn’t know. It hurts too much, she can’t think. Blurry. All is blurry and there’s a face above her, when did she lie down, when did that happen, who is that. 

“Got the human knocked out. 1 HP. Ol’ Fluffybuns can do the rest.”

She knows that voice. Old and creaky. Familiar. Comfortable. Something to admire. Dry scales and patches of fuzzy hair. A surprisingly strong laugh. Crabapples and sea tea and a warm cave. Sleeping while he bustles about in his shop. Safe. Good. 

“Curious…”

Not a voice she knows. Comes from the unknown face. Low and deep, smooth. Can’t tell if it’s friendly or not. 

“What’s happenin’ to ‘er?”

Rough and worried. Angry. 

“It seems something has allowed her to cling to her life even when she should have died. She’s not a boss monster. A contamination by the human? Possible. Red liquid seeping from the cavity here, let’s see. Not blood, the viscosity doesn’t match the descriptions. Interesting…”

“Heck, don’t prod at her! Do somethin’! Can you help her or not?!”

“Apologies. Perhaps a healing agent to stabilise her for now. I can’t promise a solution but if this is what I think it is, then an injection might do the trick…”

Something cold and sharp pierces the ruin of her lost eye. She almost doesn’t notice. It’s such a small thing in comparison to all the other pain. Everything seems so far away, but there’s something warm in her now, something soothing. 

“Careful. There. That should work for now.”

Jostling. 

“Where to?”

“The laboratory, of course. This is delicate work, not something to be done in the dirt.”

She can’t see. 

“You’re leaving bits of ‘er behind!”

“That can’t be helped.”

She’s too hot and too cold. 

“You damn - “

“Not now. If she is to be saved, it must be done soon. Take the human to Asgore. I will let you know if she survives. It’s amazing, that she’s still… oh. Well. That part of her will hopefully reattach. Give it here. I should really go.”

Swaying. Dark. Blurry. Hands on her and magic.

“I wonder if the sensory perceptions work in this state. Can you hear me? ...no? I suppose even if you can there’s little chance you have enough energy left to give a coherent reply. Still, if you are capable of listening… wouldn’t it be _fascinating_ , if you were to come back from this? Now that’s what I call beating the odds. I guess what I’m saying is, don’t give up just yet. Alright?”

...yeah, she thinks before she falls unconscious. Beating the odds. 

That sounds good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, body horror, gore, eye gore, near death experience, young children in really fucked up situations,


	21. Out of the Underground, into the Unknown [Gaster]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comes with a [main chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/28225101). Reading order doesn't matter.

His latest experiment is possibly more promising than any other he has conducted so far. 

Considering that he has invented the core among other things, Gaster feels that this is quite the statement. Not that he would brag about it, of course. He is doing this not for prestige, but for the benefit of monsterkind and the progress of science. A genuine desire to help and discover are pushing him forwards. 

He glances down at the perfectly circular hole in the left palm floating next to his uppermost segment. A necessity. The experiment is well worth the sacrifice. It isn’t even really a sacrifice. He has hands floating next to three of his upper body segments, a row of short, stubby appendages without fingers on the next three segments, and then several segments with small feet that he uses to walk on. One slightly altered hand doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, even if it was his dominant one. And besides, it matches his father’s Corner Orb, even if it doesn’t spin. Up until now, the floating limbs, their white faces and the wide grins so typical of the Madjick have been the only things they have in common. Otherwise Gaster resembles his mother more, having the long, swaying body of a Moldbygg with several knobbly segments. Gaster loves his mother of course, but he he finds his father’s magical knowledge endlessly fascinating and likes the idea of having another thing that links them in appearance. Though even if he didn’t, he would have done this anyway. 

He looks back up, watching the tiny skeleton floating in a tank filled with nutrient solution in front of him. 

It looks very similar to what he knows human skeletons to look like, which does not surprise him when he considers how he has constructed its soul. The fact that it has not been able to carry the determination of the split complementary harmony Gaster had originally planned for it is perhaps a disappointment, even if he did manage to stabilise it before the soul died. It has only 1HP now though. He can’t change that anymore, but he hopes it will not hinder the creature. He will have to protect it if necessary. 

Gaster takes a deep breath and repeats his to do list in his head, settling his thoughts and stopping himself from being distracted. He can recognise when he is stalling, and it’s not befitting of someone in his position. It is time for him to go through with the final step. 

Methodically, Gaster follows the protocol. One final check tells him that the soul is stable and that the magical body it has formed around itself is firmly connected to the soul itself. A connection perhaps slightly more loose than it would be in a regular monster, thanks to the human traits inside the soul. This part at least works as intended, even if it will likely not have any big effects. It might result in an ability to separate the soul a few lengths further from the body than usual in a pinch. Not something most monsters had a lot of uses for. 

With the test finished, Gaster initiates the process that will drain the nutrient solution from the tank. He watches both the skeleton inside the tank and the many monitors connected to the tank carefully while the gurgle of draining liquid fills the small laboratory room. There are no changes throughout the process.

At the end of it, the skeleton is left lying on the floor of the tank. Gaster pushes one last button, and the glass walls of the tank recede into the pedestal it rests on. Still no changes in the data or any visible movement. 

Hmm.

He pulls a pair of surgical gloves over his dominant hands on his uppermost segment and carefully approaches the pedestal of the now opened tank, where the skeleton lies. Reaching out with his left hand, he brushes the tip of his fingers against the skull of the creature, ever so gently, fully aware of how fragile this small being in front of him is. 

He half expects it to dust under his touch. 

To his relief though, the skeleton’s limbs shake, and it clenches its hand into small fists. The interplay of all these tiny bones is fascinating to watch. 

Then, the skeleton blinks. 

That had been one of the differences to a human skeleton that Gaster immediately noticed; the presence of something like eyelids on the sockets of the skull. They looked just like bone and for a while Gaster hadn’t been sure if the skeleton had simply formed with its sockets fused shut, if it would grow up blind. But then the lids had started twitching as his scans picked up more magic and activity from the soul while the creature was growing in the tank. Now, he finally gets to see that his later suspicions were right. The skeleton can open its eye sockets, although they are gaping and empty, a deep and impenetrable black greeting him once the skeleton’s eye sockets are fully open. 

Fascinating. 

“Hello, little one,” Gaster says quietly so as not to scare the creature. He isn’t sure if he should expect a response or not, or what kind of response he should hope for. 

Monsters and humans cannot procreate together. Everyone knows this. 

So now that he is the first to have created a creature whose soul carries both human and monster traits, the first true hybrid… what will happen? The possibilities seem endless. Gaster is fairly sure the creature will show great promise, a greater magical strength thanks to the human traits. He had hoped for a greater solidity in its body, but with the low HP that looks unlikely. Still, it might have inherited his intellect, and with how clever humans can be… 

The skeleton lies there, its empty eye sockets gazing at nothing. 

“Of course. You are merely an infant,” Gaster tells it, carefully stroking over its round skull in what he hopes is an affectionate manner. He tries not to feel discouraged. Babies are seldom interesting creatures. It takes a few months at least before they get interesting and start to learn how to talk and move. 

He can be patient. The Core wasn’t built in a single day either. Given enough time, this experiment, this new being he created, will develop into something spectacular. 

It is, after all, something like Gaster’s son. 

-

“Come,” he tells the skeleton. 

It stands up and obediently follows him out of its room. Its steps have grown somewhat more secure, but otherwise little has changed. 

It does not talk.

It barely seems capable of understanding him at all. 

Its eye sockets gaze at nothing regardless how he tries to make it look at something. 

Gaster can’t help but feel disappointed by now. It has been almost two years and in this time, most monster children with a growth rate like this skeleton have learned how to sit, walk, respond to their caregivers, feed themselves, and many will be speaking in words and simple sentences at the very least. The skeleton has not. Judging by how its soul is developing, it should be able to do these things. Its physical development rate matches that of monsters like Gaster himself; maturing at roughly the same speed as a human would, only to then live a prolonged existence in his grown state. He doesn’t understand why the skeleton is stagnating so much, and in a corner of his mind that he is yet hesitant to acknowledge, he fears that his experiment has simply failed catastrophically and he has ended up creating a sentient being that lacks sapience - life without true awareness.

Gaster is not ready to succumb to these fears yet. 

Like every monster, he has high hopes, and so he is still willing to keep trying. He named the creature after its codename and has tried to get a reaction out of it by getting it used to that name, but it doesn't seem to have helped. He has switched to a slew of pet names for now, theorising that perhaps showing the creature increased affection will yield better results. Every day he provides tests and mental stimulation in the form of talking to the small creature and playing with it, treating it like a child should be treated to the best of his abilities. He has provided it with a room in the laboratory that he has cushioned in order to protect its fragile bones from breaking should it fall. A comfortable mattress fitted with the softest sheets and pillows provides a sleeping place. Stuffed toys and cardboard books and colourful murals on the walls provide entertainment for when Gaster can’t be there. 

He has never seen it interact with any of these things. 

Sitting down on the floor of the test area, he begins with the first part of what has become a ritual. The skeleton may be unresponsive and underdeveloped, but it does seem to enjoy touch. Or rather, it leans into him whenever Gaster touches it, although it never does anything more than that. 

So he likes to begin with that, and today like every day he pulls the skeleton into the curl of his long body that forms his his lap and begins stroking its skull, wrapping several hands around it and hugging it close to his chest. The skeleton leans its skull against him, eye sockets empty and dark as always. Despite how unresponsive it is and how objectively creepy it looks, Gaster can’t deny that in moments like these, he feels rather attached to his little creation. 

He thinks it has to do with the size; the skeleton is really _very_ small. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, knowing fully well not to expect an answer. “Today it is Tuesday. I took a day off yesterday and on the first day at work I always feel particularly well-rested. The relaxation of the free day and the excitement of continuing my life’s work invigorate me.” 

The skeleton is quiet and relaxed in his arms. 

“I have made good progress on the mysterious machine that was found in the garbage dump,” he continues, undeterred by the lack of a response. “I believe I told you about the cabling and other mechanical parts inside? To put it simply, I believe that this box is part of a device intended to execute logical operations to a certain end purpose. Similar to how an abacus might be used to calculate, but in a more general sense in that the device will perform the calculation on its own, or it might perform whole sets of calculations. I am not yet sure to what end and it’s nothing but a theory yet, of course… but wouldn’t that be fascinating? I wonder why humans would feel the need to invent such a thing.”

He keeps petting the skull of the skeleton, enjoying the smooth texture of the bone. 

“What might the human world up there look like today… I keep wondering about it. Based on how their trash changes, their world must be undergoing a rapid development. I would love to see it for myself.”

He looks down at the skeleton and stops petting it, lest it becomes too comfortable and falls asleep again. 

“To this end, I would like to work on your magic again today. Your reserves are vast and if you could utilise them I believe you might help us shatter the barrier once and for all. Perhaps we will not even need a seventh soul. It would be a big relief to the king and to monsterkind as a whole.”

The skeleton is still leaning against him, not moving at all apart from how its delicate ribcage shifts with each breath. 

“Come. Let’s begin.”

This is one of the sentences the skeleton responds to. It stands up and moves away from him so Gaster is able to stand up himself. He walks over to the modified device he uses to measure magical output; a little piece of machinery incorporating a thermometer and compass that he has modified and linked so they would react to certain wavelengths of magic. Connected to them is a weighted stylus suspended above a roll of paper, which will record the movements of the instruments in the form of jittering lines of ink which he can compare to a baseline that he had recorded earlier today. A clever contraption of his own making which makes much of his work much easier. 

After checking that the device is working correctly, he returns to the skeleton. It has not moved in the meantime, standing where he left it as if it is only an empty shell. 

Gaster lowers himself down next to the skeleton and takes its hand. He can feel the magic on its body, a terrifyingly strong force that already eclipses his own even at this young age. 

If only he could coax it out.

He keeps holding onto the skeleton and channels his own magic into a very simple attack. Gaster’s own magical abilities are strictly average in terms of power, but he still lowers his output until the bullets he produces are the smooth, oval shapes that most monsters produce in their childhood. He makes sure that his hand stays in firm contact with the skeleton throughout, so it can sense the flow of magic and how he directs it outwards. It’s a common practice used by monster parents whose children need a little bit of extra help to discover how their magic works. 

The skeleton raises its left hand. 

Nothing happens. 

Gaster is able to repress the groan. Nothing ever happens and he can’t deny that it frustrates him immensely. The magic is right there, why won’t it come out? But it won’t do to let this frustration show outwardly. The skeleton is still young and even if it doesn’t show any outward responses whatsoever, there’s still a chance that if he acts frustrated, he might put pressure on the little creature that might interfere with its progress further and create a block caused by the psychological fear of disappointing its caregiver. 

“Yes, well done,” he says instead, taking great care to let warmth and care flow into his voice. He pets the skeleton’s skull again briefly. “You are trying very hard. That is good. Keep trying. There is no need to hurry. You can do it.”

The skeleton keeps its arm raised. 

And even though nothing happens, Gaster keeps praising it until the session is over and he returns the skeleton to its room. He makes sure it’s comfortable, reads it a story, gives it one final hug, and then leaves, locking the door behind him. 

He returns to his personal office and sits down at his desk, readying the voice recording device he uses to record the proceedings of his experiments. While writing them down and storing the files takes up less space, he likes listening to his recordings. Sometimes, hearing himself talk gives him new ideas that he wouldn’t think of otherwise. 

“Tuesday, August 8th, 1989. Experiment WDG 1392, codename ASH. Test protocol 5. Testing length 30 minutes. Results negative. The experiment has yet to develop any sort of magical ability. Inherent magical levels remain stable, magical output remains stable at zero percent. No fluctuation detected. Soul stable. Reasons for the lack of magical output…”

He doesn’t know the reasons, and all theories he records are nothing but baseless speculation because he doesn’t have anything better. 

Still, he can’t give up. 

He managed to build the core despite all the setbacks, he can do this too. 

-

“Good boy,” Gaster says absentmindedly, petting the skeleton. 

It has grown a little since he suspended the tests, and that is just about all it has done. It is almost nine years old by now, but it still shows no signs of developing its magic or reacting in more than a very basic manner. It has gotten slightly clingier over the years, touching him whenever it can. It also shows a preference for soft surfaces and greasy food, in that it lays on soft surfaces if left otherwise unattended and will eat faster whenever the food is particularly greasy. It will not make a selection if left to its own devices, however.

Gaster is a patient and hopeful monster, but after so much time of very little progress, he has labeled this experiment a failure and stopped testing the creature. He still takes care of it to the best of his abilities - he has created life even if it is barely more than an empty shell, and it is his duty to provide it with all the comforts he can give it. Anything less would be cruel. He even likes to spoil it a little and has kept up the habit of addressing it by various affectionate nicknames rather than its codename designation. 

The only thing he will not give it is outside contact. He was always aware that creating an artificial soul is morally rather dubious, and with the experiment a failure he’s too scared of the consequences. On top of that, the skeleton is still very fragile, and while monsters are compassionate to a fault, he can easily see them feeling scared of an artificial creature that does nothing but gaze at them with these dark, empty eye sockets. Of that fear triggers an attack, no matter how accidental and small... Better not to risk it. 

To be honest, Gaster doesn't think it matters much though. The skeleton doesn't appear unhappy here in the laboratory. He has no reason to assume that it's missing anything. 

The skeleton presses itself against him, running its small hands over the fabric of his lab coat in a slow, repetitive motion. Gaster is used to this, so he allows it to proceed and concentrates back on his lab report instead. 

Magical output of individual human souls when stimulated via trait manipulation… a field of study he never got far with. The king is cautious about letting him use the human souls, especially when it comes to messing with the harmonies. Gaster knows the souls wouldn't break from it, but of course he understands that the king can't risk losing a soul after going through so much to obtain the six they have in the first place. It had been tricky enough to get the souls for long enough to extract traits for the creation of the artificial creature beside him, even though the traits replenished themselves afterwards. After all, Gaster couldn't exactly point that out to the king. His experiment was and is a secret and it's going to stay that way. Especially now that he has given up on it.

Regardless, Gaster is still interested in getting his hands on the souls again. While the artificial soul is a bust, his mind keeps returning to that moment decades ago when he saved that small fish monster called Undyne from melting. A determination so strong that it destroyed her own body… it fascinates him. It fascinates him even more to see what has become of her; a warrior strong enough to lead the royal guard more efficiently than any other captain in the past couple of centuries that he knows of, with vast reserves of magic honed under the direct tutelage of the king. There is no saying how much of her strength is due to the determination and how much she would have developed even without it. He's willing to bet though that her power is at least partially due to the determination. And his artificial creation has vast magical reserves too, even if it's unable to access them. 

Monster magic is strengthened exponentially by the power of human soul traits. 

If Gaster could make use of this fact… it would benefit monsterkind tremendously. 

They all want to break the barrier, and they are close to achieving it. But what comes after? They all hope that the king can negotiate for peace, but Gaster would like a little reassurance on top of that. Monsters don't have much to put up against humans in a fight, but if they were strengthened by human soul traits… they might be safer that way. Tougher. Harder to subdue. 

He nods to himself and pulls out the paperwork to apply for another round of testing on the souls. He's reasonably sure that Asgore will let him since Gaster’s track record so far has been stellar. As long as Gaster promises not to do a few select things, Asgore should allow him his experiments. 

It turns out that he is right when one of the souls are delivered to him shortly after. Asgore is curious about this new research, but Gaster is intentionally vague, outlining theories and ideas that are only tangentially related to what he wants to do while still sounding interesting enough to warrant the testing. As soon as the king is gone, Gaster brings the soul down to his underground laboratory complex. He got the cyan one again this time, which has handled several times before already. That makes things easier. 

It doesn't take long for him to prepare the setup and stimulate the soul so he can extract the determination. He also extracts a couple of other traits while he's at it, thinking that he never knows when he might need them. It might be that the determination needs balancing, and then they will be good to have. 

With the traits extracted, he proceeds to scan his own soul. The monster soul scan technology has come far in the last couple of years. Figuring out how the computer technology invented by the humans work and adapting it for his own purposes has allowed monsterkind great progress, and his own work has become easier thanks to it too. The soul scan technology is one most monsters are wary of though. Souls are just so private to them. Gaster understands that, but at the same time he feels irritated by their reactions. Sometimes science is uncomfortable, that's just a necessity for progress to happen. 

Oh well. 

Based on the data from his soul scan, he figures out how much determination to start with. Obviously he will conduct the experiment on himself; he has seen firsthand what this stuff can do to a monster and he would never endanger anyone like that. It's risky of course, but he's entirely willing to make a few sacrifices in the name of science. He has set things up so that should this go wrong, he won't leave a mess behind. His papers and experiments are in order and an automatic message is timed to go out if he doesn't disable it at a certain time, so that the skeleton will have someone to look after it in an emergency. He hates the thought of it slowly perishing down here in the labs just because of his carelessness. In short, he has done everything possible to prepare for emergencies. 

In spite of that, he can't deny that he's nervous. 

While he values science both for itself and for the progress of monsterkind and is willing to make a slew of sacrifices for it, he can't deny that he feels a little scared. 

He has seen what determination can do to a monster. The melting, the slow degradation of the body as it was consumed by a force bigger than what it could hold...

That is a horror he doesn't wish to experience. 

Breathe, he tells himself. He is a scientist of the highest order, one of the most brilliant minds his kind has ever produced. He can do this. 

He measures out a small dose of determination, minuscule really, and dilutes it further in several samples of his own magic while labelling them with the exact percentages of the mixture as he goes. Tiny drops of these new mixtures go onto glass plates, which he then takes to his microscope. He flicks the switch to turn it on and adds the lens he developed to perceive magic through to the regular lens. It's a fiddly contraption, but thanks to the fact that he has several sets of hands with fine digits, he manages. 

Peeking at the samples through the microscope, he finds three where the determination has destabilised the magic, two where nothing seems to have happened, and one where the results are inconclusive. He notes down and decides to start with the second lowest dose for himself. It didn't show any effect in the sample, but the next one up might be dangerous already, so he feels better about trying the safer dose for now. 

Gaster injects the determination right into his hand. It doesn't really matter since his body and soul are so connected, but for some reason an injection into his hand is still less scary than one directly into his soul. He follows up immediately with an injection of healing magic. 

Way back when he saved Undyne, the healing magic had helped stabilise her for at least long enough that he could transport her to his laboratory, where he extracted much of the determination from her eye before her rapidly deteriorating body forced him to take drastic measures and extract it from the soul directly, adding some kindness to balance it out. It had left even him sick, souls weren’t _meant_ to be handled that way unless the monsters involved were closest family or lovers, but it had saved her life and he got to watch her body reform. It did leave her with a nasty scar though. Later when she developed green magic and grew increasingly powerful he slowly got the idea of trying to create a hybrid soul of human and monster traits, and this in turn has led him to this point. He has a vial of kindness ready just in case, but he hopes that he won’t need it. 

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, Gaster regularly injects himself, taking great care to calculate the correct doses every time before the injection itself. He’s not taking any chances on this, it’s risky enough as it is. 

Slowly, he can feel something in his magic shift. 

It’s subtle, the kind of change that he wouldn’t have been able to point out instinctively if he hadn’t experienced the gradual difference for himself. It’s not just the slow but steady increase in power. It’s a small, but fundamental difference in how his magic operates. Fascinating, and not something he would have guessed to happen despite having watched Undyne before. He supposes he would have to touch her hand to feel it for himself. 

Hah. That gives him an idea. 

He doesn’t really expect anything to come out of it, but he wouldn’t be a scientist if he didn’t try crazy stuff sometimes. Case in point, experimenting with determination on himself. His trip to the skeleton’s room is quick and as always, the creature follows him obediently when he leads it outside. They haven’t been in the testing area together for a long time, but the skeleton stays next to him as it always did when he brought it there. 

It seems to remember the tests they used to do. When Gaster takes its hand and lowers himself down closer to its level, it immediately raises the other hand like it always used to. 

“Good boy,” Gaster praises, running his fingers over the delicate metacarpals of its hand. 

Gathering his magic, Gaster fires a round of smooth, oval bullets into the testing chamber, chuckling to himself. 

His laughter dies when the skeleton _flinches_. 

It’s such an abrupt movement, so much more sudden than anything it usually does. Gaster stares at it completely baffled, and then feels a shiver creep up each and every single segment of his body when he feels magic come alive in the skeleton’s body. Those vast reserves that he never felt stir are suddenly churning, and then, slowly. 

Ever so slowly, like fireflies in the darkness of Waterfall, lights flicker to life in the endless darkness of the skeleton’s eye sockets. 

They hang there wide and shining and add so much expressiveness to that little skull. 

The skeleton blinks. Once, twice, the new lights trembling in the eye sockets. Then they shrink and sharpen and suddenly the skeleton is staring at him. At Gaster. Taking him in. 

There’s a creeping sense of horror in the back of Gaster’s mind at the level of awareness in those eye lights. The skeleton blinks again and finally looks away. It looks down at itself. At where their hands are joined. At its feet and the floor and from there on and on until it has taken in the entire room including the ceiling. Its mouth is hanging open in an expression of awe that would be comical were it not for the terrifying implications of what’s happening. 

Before Gaster can say anything, the skeleton raises its hand and releases a wave of bullets shaped like little bones that sail across the room in a perfect parabola before hitting the targets he has painted on the wall right in their centres. 

Then the skeleton looks back at him expectantly. 

“G-good boy,” Gaster blurts out, more out of habit than anything else. 

“oooooy,” makes the skeleton in a soft, boyish voice. Still staring at him. Hopeful and waiting for praise, because… because that, apparently, had gone through despite everything. 

The difference between regular monster magic is subtle, as Gaster has noted. It is no surprise that the skeleton, young as it is, wasn’t able to figure it out by itself. A monster’s body is made of magic and with how a vast part of this one’s magic was inaccessible until now, there’s no telling which senses it missed out on simply because of his lack to recognise where the problem was. 

An intelligent, aware mind trapped in its own body, unable to reach out or fully perceive what was happening around it. What kind of darkness did this child live in for nine years, just because of his mistakes? 

Gaster would not describe himself as an emotional monster, but when he hugs the skeleton child close and stumbles over his own words because he is too horrified to praise it properly, he can’t help himself. 

He doesn’t even remember the last time he cried. 

-

“Papyrus,” Gaster says, pointing to the second small skeleton that lies on the table in front of him and Sans. 

“pap,” Sans says stubbornly, slurring the consonants. 

Considering the extreme deprivation in his early childhood, Sans has come remarkably far. The slurring is a persistent problem though. He also likes to abbreviate or drop words completely. From what Gaster has been able to gather so far, Sans had been able to hear him for the most part, he just didn’t always understand him because his sight, touch, and taste were severely diminished thanks to the lack of magic, which means that a lot of what Gaster was saying just didn’t make sense to Sans. That at least is how Gaster has interpreted Sans’ vague statements so far. 

It’s part of the reason why he has decided to create a second artificial soul. 

His thought process was that now that he knew how to do it, he could help this new child right from the start to access its magic properly. It would grow up normally, have access to all its senses and would learn how to speak early on. And if Sans had a younger sibling who didn’t exhibit all the troubles Sans showed, then maybe the younger sibling could help the older overcome his problem areas.

This is far from a perfect solution of course, but it’s better than the alternatives that Gaster could come up with. He has thought about owning up to his mistake, tell the king about his experiment and the subsequent failure, turn himself in and accept whatever punishment he was given. But then what would become of Sans? Gaster is one of the few monsters who experiences magic in a similar way that Sans apparently does. The only other one is Undyne and Undyne… she’s way too rough to handle a child so fragile as Sans. If Gaster were to be arrested, his son would forever lag behind everyone else. That’s unacceptable. It’s much better to help him improve personally and then slowly introduce him to the world afterwards, even if Gaster isn’t sure how to do that latter part yet. 

And yes, perhaps also feels a strong drive to make up for his mistakes personally. 

To make this right. 

Ever since Sans started talking, he has felt an ever growing connection to him. Gaster has always seen him as his son in a way, but there was inarguably a level of detachment there that grew ever stronger when it looked like Sans was unaware of comprehending anything but the most basic input. But now that he speaks...

One of the first things Gaster noticed is that Sans shares a peculiar trait with Gaster that no other monster seems to possess. Gaster has always had a sense for the shape of his words, a feeling of a _font_ so to say, which he attributed to the fact that he was related to a Madjick - his father noticed and spoke in magic words, Gaster notices and speaks in funny shaped letters. 

Sans has his own font and seems to be able to perceive Gaster’s as well. Gaster doesn’t know how it’s possible that his first name is the same as a font on human computers, the coincidence seems too great, but he supposes stranger things have happened. 

(Perhaps, when he looked into the history of the Underground, he found more inconsistencies than there should have been. Perhaps he has thought long long and hard about how these came to be, and reached several conclusions about time and timelines and temporal movement and the stability of it if tampered with. Perhaps he tried to build something just to take a look, and dismantled it shortly after its completion because the darkness was too much for even him to bear. Perhaps he has forgotten about it after deciding that this specific line of research wasn’t important.)

He has decided to form that coincidence into a tradition of sorts and named his skeletal son after the font his words most closely resembled. Comic sans, or Sans for short since that sounds a little more respectable than comic. His second son now has his own word shapes as well, and after comparing them to the fonts he knows of personally, he has chosen the name Papyrus for this child. 

It forms a connection between the three of them that feels special to Gaster. 

Like they’re a proper family. 

He wishes his parents were still around somehow, so he could introduce them.

There are other similarities between the three of them of course. Sans, contrary to the last ten years of Gaster’s false impressions, seems to have inherited his intellect after all. Gaster doubts that a child with less intelligence would be able to catch up so fast on so many things after being so dreadfully deprived for most of its life. And it’s not just catching up; Sans shows an interest in Gaster’s research, endlessly curious even though he’s barely able to speak and only just learning to read. He loves the stars just as much as Gaster does and recently tries to find double meanings in words. 

Gaster has very, very carefully been injecting him with diluted determination similar to how he has treated himself, hoping that he might be able to fix Sans’ broken harmony in retrospect. Judging from the increasing enthusiasm his son shows, he thinks it might be working, although Sans’ mood can still be unstable. His power is increasing again too, which is an even surer sign. Both he and Gaster are progressing rapidly during their training and Gaster has some hopes that perhaps if the injections are handled carefully enough, they might both reach the strength of a boss monster - or even more. It’s too early to say.

Papyrus initially seems very different from both of them, and yet he clearly shows similarities as well upon closer examination. Even though he is merely an infant, is already solving puzzles that were originally meant for Sans, showing a similar intellectual capability. Papyrus also seems to have inherited Gaster’s penchant for constantly voicing his thoughts if his steady stream of babbling is anything to go by. Gaster is curious to see what his second son will grow into as he gets older. He feels proud of both of them already, but has no more specific hopes apart from wanting them both to be happy. 

“Papyrus,” Gaster says again, more slowly now. “Come on, I know you can do it. Pa… py… rus…”

“ ‘pyrs,” Sans mumbles, making an expression that Gaster knows to be a pout even if Sans doesn’t have the lips to do it fully. 

“Do you not want to learn how to say your own brother’s name properly?” Gaster coaxes, raising one of his eyebrows. Sans stares up at him with a knowing expression that mellows into something softer after a couple of moments. 

“pa… pyrus,” he says gently. 

If Gaster has ever worried about some sort of sibling rivalry between Sans and Papyrus, he shouldn’t have bothered. Sans loves his little brother to pieces and will do everything for him, even if he _knows_ that he’s being manipulated. And Sans is definitely clever enough to recognise it. He has taken to watching Gaster’s face like a hawk ever since his eye lights first flickered alive, noticing even minute shifts in his expressions. He must be making up for lost time there, too. 

“Well done,” Gaster praises, giving Sans a hug. He deliberately foregoes the words ‘good boy’ because in retrospect, that sounds too much like praising an animal and Gaster isn’t comfortable with the idea anymore. He feels guilty in so many ways. Sans doesn’t seem to notice, wrapping his arms around Gaster’s neck and pressing himself close, still affectionate and craving touch.

“AAAAAAAAAAH,” Papyrus yells, shaking his fists in an obvious display of unhappiness. 

“My, you are right. We should not leave you out,” Gaster chuckles. Two of his hands let go of Sans and pick up Papyrus instead, bringing him into the hug so they’re all touching each other. Sans immediately wraps one arm around his brother while keeping the other around Gaster’s neck. 

“shh,” Sans hums. “ ‘s ok.” 

Papyrus immediately calms down, apparently appeased by the fact that he is now included in the display of affection. Or perhaps it was Sans’ reassurance. These two have a remarkable way of responding to each other. 

Then again, apart from Gaster they are the only beings they ever get to interact with. 

Gaster sighs deeply. He really has to think of a way to introduce them to other monsters. The differences in their souls aren't noticeable for anyone who doesn't know what to look for, but what is he supposed to say about where they came from? He doesn't have partner after all, and never did. He's not exactly antisocial, but certainly introverted. And on top of that he never found the concept of intimacy or romance appealing. He could invent a secret lover of course, tragically dusted after fallen from a lack of hope, leaving him with the children… but honestly, who would believe a lie so flimsy? No, he needs a better story. 

“why?” Sans asks suddenly. 

Gaster nearly flinches, looking down at his son. Is this is? The moment where Sans will ask him about his past, judge him for how Gaster treated his first creation?

But then Sans imitates Gaster’s sigh in an exaggerated manner. 

“why?” he asks again. 

“Oh. You wish to know why I sighed.”

“yeah.”

“I was thinking about your future,” Gaster admits. “About introducing you to all the other monsters out there.”

“why?”

“Because it would be beneficial for you to know more people.”

“why?”

“Because it would help you gain linguistic and social skills that you currently lack, and it might also prove to be fun for you if you could play with other children.”

“have pap...yrus,” Sans says after thinking it over for a second. 

“Your brother is wonderful and I am glad that you are so fond of each other, but social isolation is unhealthy,” Gaster explains. 

This time, Sans doesn't ask why. He simply nods slowly and then turns his attention back to his brother. 

Gaster knows that at some point, Sans won't stop asking. 

He's still not sure what he's going to say to his son when that moment comes. 

-

“We added more insulation to this part of the cabling, in order to improve the stability in this area,” Gaster says, pointing at the respective spots. The students accompanying him today meticulously note down his explanations. It's not the first time he's on a tour through the core with a class from the university, and so Gaster knows exactly what to say and how to say it in order to keep everyone's attention. He likes to sandwich these dryer parts in between more interesting tidbits. Of course most of the students would have listened to him anyway. He is the royal scientist after all and receiving direct instruction from him is a privilege granted only to a select few students who excel at even the most advanced material that the university provides them with. 

But honestly, why make it more boring than it has to be?

Interested students make for better scientists. A love for learning and discovering new things, and the joy that comes along with that, those are important. Of course boredom can lead to creativity under the right circumstances, but too much boredom stifles it and that is the last thing Gaster wants. 

He is already responsible for nearly killing the intellectual capabilities of one young monster. That is more than enough. 

Leading them through an opening into the main section of the Core, he points out the details of how the rooms interconnect so they can be shifted around and turned into a puzzle. 

“If you look at these lines, you can see the mechanism we use in order to…”

He's interrupted by a bright flash. 

“No magic,” he snaps, irritated that they won't follow the rules he set for them before the tour started. 

But the flash repeats and when he turns to look for the culprit he finds all of them looking around with worry clear on their faces. There’s a low rumble rising around them.

“What - “

The explosion seems to shake the very fundament of the core itself. Gaster and the students topple over and he barely manages to grab onto one who was threatening to fall over a ledge. 

What is happening? 

Another explosion shakes the building and despite trying, Gaster can't hold on anymore. His many hands don't have the connection to strong arms nor enough strength by themselves to let him hold onto the student while also keeping himself stable. They slip over the edge together with some of the other students screaming in terror as the blinding white magma below rushes towards them. 

Then, everything stops. 

Gaster stops falling, the students stop falling, the magma stops boiling, a bubble that was just about to pop freezes just before it actually can. He finds that he himself can still move, even when nothing else does.

Everything is basked in a light that seems to radiate on a wavelength just a smudge above the usual ultraviolet. 

Right in front of him, in the centre of the point where that light seems to originate from, a strange machine flickers into existence. It looks as if it has been dragged down the mountain and badly damaged in the process, losing some of its shielding as it hangs in the air, the glass pane cracking and splintering under the strain. 

But that's not what Gaster really pays attention to. 

Behind the fracturing glass sits a skeleton that looks eerily familiar. 

It looks like Sans. 

It… is Sans…?

Impossible. 

Sans is _eleven_. 

This skeleton looks much older than that, a grown up in his twenties at least, even though he still has a baby face with soft and rounded features. Big eye sockets with bright lights shining inside. The same wide eyed stare of shock that Sans has when something catches him off-guard. 

Impossible… 

“that was… wait. what? i think i… i. what? you,” the skeleton says softly with a great amount of confusion. It sounds like Sans, too. A low voice - lower as this is an adult - with a similar way of slurring some parts of the words. “you're… i think i know you. i think... you’re my. my. i thought you'd be skeleton too!”

There's so much insecurity there, so much shock, so much grief. 

“Sans?” Gaster asks. 

“yes?”

Oh. 

Well then. 

“Did you build a time machine?!” Gaster asks incredulously. And, perhaps it says something about them both, that this is the first thing he thinks to ask. Sans looks half sheepish and half proud in return. 

“uhm. yeah? i just wanted to know why i can't remember anything before i was eleven so i took some determination and condensed it and filtered it through a magically created gravitational event horizon until it became a self sustaining entity somewhat akin to a dead star - “

“You created a black hole out of determination in order to circumvent the usual restrictions of temporal movement,” Gaster concludes, half-remembering with a shudder the darkness he had witnessed briefly when he looked into the matter of timelines. “That's incredibly clever. And also very stupid. You really are my son.”

“hey!”

“Sans, you can't push the timeline around like that, the consequences could be -”

“it was already happening anyway!” Sans says defensively. “something’s been messin’ with the timeline for months now, so it's not like it's gonna matter much.”

“Interesting. Did it occur to you that you yourself might be said interference? A future version of you?” Gaster asked. 

“yeah, but the trail i detected wasn't created by me. i would've known thanks to the detector,” Sans explains somewhat smugly, patting the side of the machine. “i equipped this baby with the ability to detect different signatures in the trails left behind by time travel.”

A screw pops off ‘this baby’ just as Sans finishes his sentence, falls through the bubble of ultraviolet light they hang in and then stops as soon as it reaches the edge. They both follow its trail with their eyes before they look back at each other. Sans is blushing a soft shade of blue.

“...regardless,” Gaster says dryly, pointedly, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, “why have you come here now? Surely you must have a reason to pick this specific point instead of an earlier date, if you want to know more about your childhood.”

“this is the date where i stop remembering things,” Sans explains. “i remember tomorrow, but not today. but i know there was a big explosion at the core today though. a heating problem. ripped half of the internal puzzle structure apart and caused a blackout for months until it was repaired, we got lucky it didn’t blow up the whole underground. but it was pretty big ‘n a lot of people lost someone in the accident. so i thought it might be related…”

Something chilling runs down Gaster’s body that he can't explain. A sense of foreboding. But no. Now he knows. His son has come to change the course of events. It will be fine. 

“A reasonable assumption,” he admits. “Although the concluding experiment is lacking in execution. It is poorly thought out, I'm afraid to say.”

“whatever,” Sans fumes, looking more hurt than Gaster thought he'd be. 

At least until he reconsiders their conversation and remembers that this future version of his son had trouble recognising Gaster as his father. From Sans’ perspective, this might well be their first meeting. And while Sans is a clever child, Gaster has always known him as eager to please his father. 

“It's not your fault, Sans, but - ” he hurries to say, intending to both soothe his son and get to more important matters, like that impending explosion, when the latter simply catches up with him. 

One moment he is hanging suspended in otherworldly light speaking to a future version of his son while the rest of the world has seemingly come to a standstill, the next everything around him bursts into a cacophony of fire and sound and _pain_ , the machine that contains his son flashing and splintering and ripping a hole right into the air between the two of them, a hole that they both fall into - 

There’s a scream that might be Gaster or Sans, there’s no way of telling - 

And darkness. 

Endless, deepest darkness. 

For a moment, Gaster assumes that the machine is showing him this, that this is some sort of projection on a screen. But when the silence that came with the darkness stretches on and seems to encroach and invade, the realisation of what’s happening sends a spear of fear into his very soul. 

He tries to struggle. 

To cry out. 

To _reach_ out. 

Briefly, he can feel vague sparks of consciousness, a last sharp flash of horror from what he belatedly recognises are some of his students, before they suddenly fracture and splinter outwards, away from him. 

Panicked, Gaster thinks this cannot happen to him, he wants to _live_ , he can’t simply extinguish like a flame whose candle has been cut, he can’t, he won’t, he… 

He feels himself diminish, but not completely. He feels the darkness eat away at the core of who he is, at his soul, before coming to a screeching halt at a core of determination that shines too brightly for the darkness to consume. He feels his body half turn to dust around him, and half melting until his soul is sitting in a fused glob of black sludge made up of the environment and his durst and the scattered magic of himself and what may be the remains of his students.

It takes him a long while to come to terms with that, at least that’s what he thinks, until he notices that he accepted it in an instant. 

There is no time here.

And yet he can feel moments drag out into forever, passing and not passing at the same time, two states of being overlapping and becoming one. Confusingly, Gaster can understand this dual nature, even though he is sure he would not have been able to do this before. 

All he knows is that one eternal, short, long, dizzyingly empty moment is enough. He cannot - he needs to get out of here. He needs to go back, back to where he came from, he wants to go home...

He is home. Stands in the laboratory with his boys, as if he never left. They play peacefully. 

Ah. A dream then. Yes, that’s it, that’s all, he… he merely nodded of for a second.

“Sans, Papyrus, I think it is time for us all to go to bed. I am beside myself,” he chuckles. His sons do not reply. 

“Sans. Papyrus.” Gaster doesn’t like repeating himself, but he stays calm. Sometimes his boys are distracted. It happens. He isn’t mad. “Come now. You can continue playing tomorrow.”

But nothing happens. 

Eventually, Sans picks up his brother and carries him to bed by himself, tucks him in and nuzzles him. 

“g’nigh,” Sans mumbles.

Papyrus begins to cry. Sans looks confused for a second, turns to survey the room as if waiting for something. 

“Sans,” Gaster says, more loudly. “What are you doing? You know that I read to Papyrus every night, to both of you. Let me. Here. I can…” 

Gaster stares at his hand, passing through the book as if it’s not there. As if what is not there? The book? His hand? Sans takes the book himself and gets comfortable next to his brother. 

“pee… ka-boo,” Sans reads, clearly struggling to pronounce the words correctly. “with. f-lu-ff-y… bun-ny.”

“Sans, you’re doing very well.” Gaster is even louder now, almost yelling, barely keeping his voice friendly so as to not scare his children. “But you don’t have to struggle like this. Why don’t you let me read like I do every night?”

“he-re co-mes fluf-fy bun-ny,” Sans reads, “the fluf-fie-st bun-ny in… bun… bun-ny-land.”

“ _Sans_ ,” Gaster shouts. 

“fluf-fy bun-ny wa… waa… wants to, play,” Sans reads. 

“ _ANSWER ME_ ,” Gaster roars, and he would have thrown one of the chairs in the room against a wall if he could only touch it. 

He doesn’t understand what’s happening except he does - he can and does return to the moment he thought briefly was a dream. He thinks about the moment and is there and witnesses himself falling into a rift in spacetime, dragged along by that blasted machine as it is catapulted back to where it came from, losing him along the way and leaving him behind in the empty void between time and reality. 

Gaster once recoiled in horror upon imagining his son left in the dark, without stimuli in the form of touch or interaction or… or anything, really. He can’t appreciate the irony of this, not now, he has to get out, he _has_ to, he cannot be alone here, he needs to know how long this will take. Of course he will get out, Sans will come back with his machine or Gaster will find a way or _something_ will happen -

His frantic wish to know catapults him back into the timeline and he watches a human touched by human magic fall into the void, some twenty years into the future. Human magic? Are they free? 

Irrelevant. 

Twenty years is too long - 

But he can feel the difference. When he reaches out for the timeline again, to find another point to jump to, there’s an immutability to it that wasn’t there before, something steady and stable where before it was malleable and flexible. That’s wrong. He knows that’s wrong, but no matter how he tries to pushes against it, it won’t budge. 

No. 

_No_. 

He will fix this, he has to fix this. All he has to do is wait for that human and then he will figure something out, find a way to reverse _that_ so he can reverse _his own_ situation, somehow, he will make it work, he is determined to make it work. It should be easy anyhow. There is no time here, not really, and even things that take a long time pass in an instant. 

A second.

A lot can fit into the span of a second. Eternity for example. 

Gaster screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: unintentional child neglect/abuse, amoral medical experimentation, experiments on children, children being abandoned, children in bad situations, body horror, existential horror, memory issues, falling into the void and all that implies
> 
> Edit: [Some people asked what my Gaster looked like before he fell into the core, so I made a (crappy) reference](https://rehlia.tumblr.com/post/166790994160/some-people-asked-what-gaster-in-these-are-our)


	22. Soul Couleurs [Gaster]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comes with a main chapter [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/29053107).

RS ACCESS TERMINAL ALPHA 19. ENTER COMMAND

>login

PLEASE ENTER USER NAME

>wdgaster

VALID USER. PLEASE ENTER USER AUTHENTICATION

>AbraCadabraSesame0pen

AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. USER SECURITY LEVEL RED. PLEASE ENTER PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER (PIN)

>6690-1036-0034-4861

PIN ACCEPTED.  
USER NAME: wdgaster  
TITLE: Royal Scientist  
CLEARANCE LEVEL: Red

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>access file soulscanas.ssd

ACCESSING FILE…

DISPLAYING soulscanas.ssd

>cancel

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>access file soulscanchar.ssd

ACCESSING FILE…

DISPLAYING soulscanchar.ssd

>cancel

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>access file soulscangas.ssd

ACCESSING FILE…

DISPLAYING soulscangas.ssd

>cancel

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>access file soulscanyou.ssd

ACCESSING FILE…

DISPLAYING soulscanyou.ssd

>cancel

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>access file soulscansns.ssd

ACCESSING FILE…

DISPLAYING soulscansns.ssd

>cancel

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>save

FILES SAVED. SESSION LOG RECORDED. BACKUP SUCCESSFUL. 

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>sudo FEP.app ld newfont.fp

FONT OVERLAY DETECTED. TYPE: MEGRIM. MIXED CAPITALISATION. 

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>move file newfont.fp @ home/wdgaster/linguistics/fonts/you

DIRECTORY DOES NOT EXIST. CREATE FOLDER?

>y

LOADING…

FOLDER CREATED. FILE newfont.fp MOVED TO home/wdgaster/linguistics/fonts/you

PLEASE ENTER COMMAND

>logout

USER wdgaster SUCCESSFULLY LOGGED OUT. 

RS ACCESS TERMINAL ALPHA 19. ENTER COMMAND

>shutdown

SHUTTING DOWN…

IT IS NOW SAFE TO TURN OFF THE COMPUTER.


	23. It's Not A Side Effect Of The Ketchup, I’m Thinking It Must Be Love [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comes with a [main chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/29572728)! Reading order doesn't matter.

You fall asleep on him even faster than he thought you would. 

He can feel your breath evening out against him, the shifts of your ribcage slowing. It’s a relief to know that you can do that, leaning against him as if nothing happened at all. His role in your disappearance and subsequent reappearance with an interlude of half-existence as an entity scattered between space and time would have made it understandable, if not entirely logical, if you had felt wary about being this close to him. Taking shortcuts, and resting your head on his shoulder while you sleep; he doesn’t really see why you still trust him so much. Even if he is much more careful about how he times his shortcuts now. 

It’s a paradoxical reaction in the wake of everything that has happened, but one that he can’t help but deeply appreciate; you’re not blaming him (yet), you’re not angry at him (yet), you’re not leaving him (yet). Hopefully it will stay that way. Although Dolores provided the magic that decoupled you from the void, it was his shortcut that allowed you to get lost, and he can’t forget that no matter how hard he tries. No matter what you say.

Even though he, of all people, should have been more careful. 

His past is marred by a seemingly inescapable connection to the void and voidness as a concept; here a fractured time machine twisting cause and effect into an ouroboros as it dragged his father into the blackness, here his own childhood split sharply into before-the-dark and after-the-dark thanks to a single unknown variable in the experiment that created him.

Incapable of seeing, incapable of speaking, incapable of tasting and barely able to hear or feel or _comprehend_ and no, it isn’t any comfort to know that his father had to endure similar deprivation in the place between spacetime, stars, he wouldn’t wish that on anyone and yet _he has caused it to happen twice_ to the people he loves. 

Calm down, he tells his own thoughts.

Breathe. Patience. That’s what he does, that’s who he is, at the deepest level of his core, his soul. (Even though, a treacherous voice whispers in the back of his mind, that had been unintentional. He knows his broken harmony, was starkly reminded only recently of what the spread of colour that represents his personality looks like on a scan. A split complementary, and the main was supposed to be _red_.)

You’re asleep on him. 

He feels compelled to compare the feeling to the first night your head had slowly slumped onto his shoulder in the wake of his own stabilising action on Dolores, how uncomfortable he had been then. How afraid of you, who had been nothing but another human with the potential strength to wipe out his brother and his species and everything he managed to hold dear. 

Then, he hadn’t wanted you on his shoulder, now, he’s happy to have you there. It sends a twist of warmth into his soul, a pang of something soft and gentle and protective. He may have had a part in causing you to fall into the void, but he still wishes to shield you from the aftereffects. Not that he knows how. 

The disappearance of certain parts of your human anatomy might make him sad, but he can’t truly understand the loss on a personal level. Your heartbeat had been a lovely thing to feel and listen to, but he had never had one of his own. The strange silence on your warm skin had been cause for first estrangement and befuddlement, before it had started to grown on him. It might be possible for monsters to create imitations of the anatomical parts whose vanishment you had just lamented, but they are incomplete approximations at best. He can only grieve the disappearance of half of the parts that used to make up your body in relation to what he personally misses about them. Everything else is an exercise of empathy and nothing more. How does he find the right words to tell you that he’s sorry, without constantly reminding you about his own role in what happened? It seems to have worked so far, but he doesn’t trust his luck. 

It simply seems impossible. 

He will inevitably say the wrong thing and lose you. 

It would not be the first time losing someone, he has experienced loss before. Has, perhaps subconsciously, been pushing people away and convinced himself that love and friendship and attachment in general were simply not for him following the disappearance of a father that he admired and idolised in spite of everything, even though he could not remember the incident after the fact. 

Perhaps he should not have stopped this course of action. 

That now seems so much easier than having to deal with losing you. You may have changed, but he still loves you. He missed you, all that time when you were gone. He didn’t understand it then, but he did.

He still, despite all the time that has passed and everything you’ve been through together, not always quite understands how you managed to burrow your way into his soul so quickly and thoroughly. Even though he knows that he would have hated the thought about a year ago, he now wouldn’t change it anyway. He likes having a relationship with you. He likes having you around, he likes having something to care for and maybe, stars above, something to _work_ for. To put effort into. 

Heh. 

No wonder Papyrus is cheering him on. 

He can remember the conversation he had with his brother about the topic of his relationship with you now; something else that had been temporarily buried in the wake of your disappearance. And of course, the difference between his behaviour during your absence and his behaviour before and after is more than pronounced. 

That means he has to keep you. 

Somehow, he has to keep you, has to try and not say the wrong things or upset you and he isn’t sure if he should apologise for taking the shortcut during which you got lost again or not, if that would be the wrong thing to say or the right. He’ll see what else you’ll have to say to him tomorrow and decide based on that, he thinks. You seemed all over the place when you talked to him just now, not that he blames you, and perhaps with more sleep and the feeling of exhaustion that’s still radiating off you gone you and him can have a more straightforward talk. 

It’s strange, to have your emotions transmitted so directly, but the feeling of your magic coming along with them is also comforting. 

There’s a sense of relief over the fact that he can neither feel traces of himself nor Gaster there - he isn’t sure what he would have done if he could - and more importantly intrigue. Your magic is interesting even though he doesn’t quite know how it works yet, the intricacies of its underpinnings still hidden since there has been no time to train and figure out what makes it tick yet. What makes _you_ tick, now that magic is what makes up half of who you are. 

He watches you carefully, twisting a little so he can see more of you, while keeping as still as possible so you won’t shift and maybe wake up. 

Your skin has the faint glow of magic on it that he knows humans can’t perceive. 

It’s no wonder you were so shocked by your appearance and then so confused when the soldiers took much longer to notice anything off with it. Humans and monsters perceive the spectrum of light rather differently since human vision lacks an entire subset of that same spectrum; without the wavelengths reaching into ultraviolet, humans necessarily won’t be able to perceive certain things. He still wonders what the world looks like without being able to see ultraviolet. Perhaps you can help him and Alphys by taking a look at the images he had created way back, and say how accurate they are. 

Later, this is clearly not the time for scientific experimentation yet. 

You are upset and in the face of that, science has to wait.

Underneath the magic that makes up your skin, he can see the faint outlines of your skeleton, bones shimmering ever so faintly with the softest hues of the rainbow. Beautiful. That may not be something you’re ready to hear yet either. 

It’s not that he doesn’t miss your humanity. He does. He misses your heartbeat in particular. The rhythm of it. How alive it felt. How it moved under your skin, how warm and vibrant it had been. How it felt to listen to it while lying on top of your chest. That's something he'll probably never quite stop missing, actually. 

But. 

It’s not _bad_ that he finds your new form attractive, is it? In a relationship, that’s a good thing. He would think it is, anyway, and not just because he’s maybe a little bit biased at the moment. It’s just that he can’t help it. He can see your bones. Almost all of them, if he really strains his eye lights, and your skeletal structure appeals to him. Feeling it out underneath your flesh is something he had often done when you were fully human, but now he doesn’t have to be content with only feeling. He can look, and there you are. 

Not that he's going to ogle you in your sleep. 

That wouldn't be right. 

With a sigh, he pries his gaze away from you and up to the door of his and your bedroom. You've probably been asleep for long enough that he can move you without waking you up. The steady stream of emotions leaning out from you is growing ever fainter as well now that your body and mind are finding the rest that they need. Carefully, he reaches for your soul with his magic, turning it blue and removing much of the gravitational pull on it so you'll be easier to carry. You don't wake, so he shifts his arms underneath you until he has you in his arms. 

It's a bit awkward, since you're about an inch taller than he is. 

But he doesn't just want to float you in front of him. Holding onto you feels better, safer. Not just for him; he couldn't help but notice that despite your sudden predisposition for sensory overload, you've been clingy and searching for affection and companionship all day. As if you can't stand to be alone for even a second. As if it terrifies you. It probably does, after the void. 

He manages to carry you all the way up into the bedroom and into the bed without you waking up. You look peaceful and calm when he pulls the blanket over you, making sure that you're warm and comfortable.

His eye lights stray from you to the picture above the bed. A printed photo of him and you, smiling into the camera together. 

It had been here the entire time, but while you were gone, it had been… _not important_. 

A shiver works its way down his spine. 

The idea that his mind would just dismiss the evidence of an entire person like that is inherently creepy. He has always relied on his good memory and sharp mind to get through life. Having proof now that he could be fooled so easily upsets him. First his father and now you. How much more did he forget or dismiss on a daily basis? The only thing that calms him somewhat is that Dolores would notice and get to the bottom of it if it happened again, even though he wouldn't be able to notice or remember that either. He'll simply have to trust her in that regard, because otherwise he’ll drive himself crazy with uncertainty. 

Despite the many questions and unsettled feelings pulsing through him, he lies down next to you, gets comfortable underneath the blanket and steadies his breath. 

He could go down to his workshop and try to find some things out by himself - were there more pictures of you in the drawer that he has forgotten about, did his machine give any signals at your disappearance that he ended up ignoring, that kind of thing - but he doesn't. He doesn't want to leave you alone. If you do end up waking up, he wants you to see that he's there next to you. Eventually he won't have to hover over you like this anymore, but right now he thinks it's better for you if you don't wake up alone. You might get a nightmare again, and he knows intimately how much it can help to simply look over and see another person there in the room, how grounding that can feel. 

That's why Papyrus isn't leaving Gaster alone either, after all. He can't help but wonder what they're talking about now. Are they catching up? Probably. Gaster better be nice to Pap. Sans knows that his father hadn't been a bad person before he fell into the void, but he was prone to mistakes, overconfidence, and unintentional abrasiveness when distracted and that latter part in particular seems to have gotten much worse now that he came back. And Papyrus obviously doesn't deserve that. 

Then again, maybe Papyrus’ presence will in itself be enough to smooth some of those rough edges in Gaster out. His brother is nothing if not supportive and kind, and that might be just the right thing in a situation where someone has been deprived of social contact for too long. Out of everyone in the house, Sans thinks that Papyrus’ influence will be the best for Gaster to be around. Perhaps also Toriel, but she's busy with having her children back and all that implies. 

About himself, he's not so sure. 

Just like with you, there's the inescapable guilt of having had a hand in causing the issue in the first place. Perhaps he can argue that he and Gaster are even, as they both spend far too long in the dark because of the other. But he has a hard time finding justice in that. Nobody deserves total sensory deprivation, especially not for a mistake that was unknowingly committed. To punish those who didn't know better doesn't seem fair. Reprimand them, remind them that they can do better, yes. But a full punishment - that should be reserved for those who knew what they were about to do, and then did it anyway. And even then, it's important not to go too far. A punishment too harsh for what they've done, and they might just decide that the system isn't fair and trying to be better is worthless. Better to use mercy, than being too harsh. That's a part of his soul too, right at the core, next to the determination that fragmented and the patience and the justice.

Heh. 

That means he has to forgive himself too, doesn't it? Otherwise he'd just be a hypocrite. Besides, he doesn't think anyone who cares about him would like it if he beat himself down when it was a mistake and not malice that caused the whole falling into the void cases to happen. Papyrus hates seeing Sans like that, he clearly remembers his brother fighting to get through to him over the past week even though Sans himself didn't know he was feeling guilty then yet. Toriel tried too. Everyone tried. And from what he knows about Gaster and about you… 

He keeps worrying that there will be blaming and that he will somehow end up being hated. But his father has always loved him. And when have you ever been anything but forgiving? Stars, he hopes that will hold true now as well. Even if not, even if this is the final straw that you finally deem unforgivable after all the times where you were kind enough to look past his mistakes, if forgiving himself stops worrying you it’s worth it.

With a last look at you before he closes his eyes, he resolves to work on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mentions of unwilling transformations/body horror and the aftereffects, guilt, self-blame, depression


	24. Together we are falling in reverse [Frisk]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comes with a main chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/31237968)! Reading order doesn't matter.

Frisk fidgets. They know they have to do this, but they don't really want to. 

That's not the first time for them of course. They've done a lot of things they didn't want to do and yet had to do anyway in this timeline alone, never mind the resets. 

But it's a lot harder without Chara.

How long has it been? They don't know. All resets only lasted a couple of months at most, the longest before this one managed to reach all the way into summer. And then something always went wrong and no matter what they did, they couldn't fix it by just loading. So they reset, and lived through the same couple of months again, and again and again. They'd tried to count at first, and Chara had tried too, but it had been too confusing. Especially when Chara started resetting too. Then there were suddenly years of memory to share that only Chara loved through, or they switched and Frisk was the disembodied ghost lying half-awake in death, waiting for Chara to fall onto their grave to walk through an underground where everything was jumbled up. They had no idea how to count that kind of stuff. 

So they don't know. They don't know how long they've lived without and with Chara living in their head. They suspect it balances out. It's enough to leave them feeling lonely and empty and insecure now anyway. Chara had always been the one who did the difficult talks. Unless things got emotional. Then Frisk took over. 

They had been a good team. They understood each other. 

But Chara is gone. They have their own body now, so Frisk has to work this out by themselves. 

They take a deep breath and finally manage to raise their hand and knock. 

“come in.”

Their hand twitches at the calm, low voice. He sounds relaxed and happy. But he _always_ sounds like that. They swallow and walk into the office, closing the door behind them. 

Sans is at his desk, looking surprised. 

But maybe not quite so surprised. 

At least three quarters of it are fake.

“heya, kid. coming to visit me?”

They know he knows that they want something. He always knows. They always know too though, they can read him back even when he’s subtle because they learned from the best. From him, in another timeline, when they had been thick as thieves. If he doesn’t look surprised then either he figured it out himself or you told him. They think you told him. You had been very insistent about this talk happening.

So that should make it easier to say something. That should make it so that they have no trouble opening their mouth and come out with it. 

They do have trouble though. 

Sans is… Sans. He _hated_ the resets. And the one who made them. Every time in the underground he suspected them. Every time when he found out they were involved he got mad, even if he tried not to show it depending on what the timeline was like. Sometimes they patched things up and became friends afterwards, but not always. But you had said he was scared now too, so. They have to try. 

“It’s, uhm.” 

They don’t like how quiet their voice is. It never bothered them before, but then Chara came and with them their voice had sounded bright and happy. Lively. Now Frisk feels dull and awkward. 

No wonder Chara got a special new monster body and monster magic like shortcuts, they got to be truly genderless like they always dreamed and now they were the perfect new child for Toriel and Asgore, and… they shouldn’t think like that. They shouldn’t. They’re happy for Chara. Chara had been through so much. They deserve this. 

But why not Frisk? Why is it never them?

Frisk tries very, very hard to push the image of their mom turning towards a little girl with cute pigtails away, another sibling that ended up better than them. It’s not important right now. 

“that’s an interesting face. you got a bone to pick with me?” 

“I wanted to talk to you,” they manage to force out. 

Technically that’s not true. You told them to. But it’s good enough, and he can probably tell what they mean. They wish they could have made a pun back at him, but they can’t think of anything fast enough. That had always been Chara, too. 

“sure, kiddo. shoot.” He sounds a bit nicer now, softer. Still looks wary though. Of them. The _anomaly_ , or what he thought of as the anomaly for a long time. Even though that had been Chara too, more or less. Despite that, he pulls the second chair next to his desk closer, patting the surface in invitation for them to sit on. They need a second before their feet work and they can walk over and sit down. They feel heavy. They don’t want to talk. 

What will they even say? They can't just pour their heart out. Sans isn't feeling good about the resets either. If they tell him, he'll only feel worse and it'll be their fault. Then he'll like them even less and you'll be unhappy with both of them and everything will go bad and they'll have no way to fix it because they can't reset anymore.

This was a stupid idea. 

“that bad, huh?” Even though Sans’ voice is quiet, they flinch. “look, i have a few guesses what this is going to be about, but you gotta tell me so i know for sure.”

“I'm sorry I can't reset anymore,” they blurt out. That's not quite what they meant to say. With him though, they always feel as if they owe him an apology. More so than with anyone else. They don't know why. 

“that’s not your fault.”

Oh but it is. It is. They're _responsible_. If they don't make sure things go alright, then everything goes down the drain. And then what? They never could let it end like that. They only want everyone to be happy. If they can't even do that, then what are they? What's left of them? Then they'll be nothing. 

“kid?”

“I… “

They can't look at him, the small lights in his dark sockets too piercing for them to meet. 

“Are you scared?” they ask him. 

He doesn't reply immediately and for a short while, Frisk is left to listen to the sounds that make their way through the closed door of Sans’ office. Sounds of people walking past and talking, a phone ringing somewhere in the building, the low hum of machines and from the outside, the sounds of the ongoing construction, for university buildings and student dorms. 

“yeah,” Sans finally says. “i am.”

“Me too,” they admit. Now that he admitted it, they find it easier to talk about their own fears. “I'm scared people will die. And that I can't do anything to fix it anymore. I'm sorry. I know this is how it should be but I'm also sorry I can't fix it anymore - “

“hey, kiddo...”

They're still not looking at him, and so they have no idea what kind of face he's making. Being able to know what he thinks by reading him us too scary. They worry too much about what they could see there. 

“Yeah?”

“i think i’m the one who needs to apologise to you.”

What?

“What?” 

They finally look up. Sans looks at them with an expression they can only describe as conflicted. He's still grinning, but it's tight. There's a frown on his brow bones and his sockets are narrowed. His eye lights are faded a little and small. There are faint, almost imperceptible lines around the ridges of his mouth. 

They translate it automatically. Guilty and sad and worried and angry - but angry at himself, not at them.

Frisk doesn't understand. 

“Why?” they ask. 

“because it's not your fault,” Sans insists. “none of this is. you didn't choose to be able to reset time and… well, i’m not gonna lie kid: you did some pretty shitty things with that power. no way around it. but you also tried to fix them, and in the end that's what you settled for. fixing things for all of us. i know a lot of people who would've used that power for something less good than that permanently. monsters included, as much as i hate to say it. i gave you a lot more trouble for that than you really deserve. i’m sorry.”

They stare at him, feeling utterly lost. This timeline keeps confusing them and this is one of the times where it catches them completely off guard. So much of it had been known, but the details of this timeline were often new to them. And then with your return, everything is new. None if this has ever happened before. Sans never apologised to them, not like _this_. 

“so, yeah. i’m scared shitless. i’m scared that something goes wrong or that i do something wrong and there'll be no way to go back from that. but that's how the world's supposed to work. i’m… trying to see the good things in it,” he explained. 

“Like what?” they demand to know. It's so hard to see the good things in this. 

“we’re still here right now,” Sans points out. “that’s further than we made it before, right?”

That's almost the same thing you had said. 

“Yeah,” they nod. 

“right. so. we’re doing well and that's good.”

They keep looking at him. Before they couldn't look and now they can't look away. Sans looks scared, just like he said. How does he go on?

“I don't know what to do,” Frisk confesses. “Every action seems wrong.”

“yeah.”

Sans doesn't tell them that that's how things are supposed to be. He just acknowledges that it's hard to make decisions that can't be repeated. Frisk is grateful for that. He gets it. Maybe you were right about talking to him. Although they still don't know yet how they could stop being scared. 

“i made some promises,” Sans tells them. 

“But you hate promises,” Frisk can't help but point out. 

“i hate ‘em because i hate breaking them. so now that i made promises… i gotta act. that makes it a bit easier,” he explains. 

That makes sense to them. When they first started to reset, they were playing around. They didn't know what to do with themselves either after a while, and that's when they ended up… doing the bad things. But once they decided that they would save everyone, once they _promised_ that they would use their power to make a happy ending stick, that's when it became easier to know what they should do. With every action, every load and reset, they could ask themselves how this would help their friends. 

The only problem is that they still want to do that, but they don't know how to do it right anymore. 

“I still want to save everyone,” Frisk says. “But that's why I'm scared of getting it wrong.”

Sans sighs. He seems somewhat… tired and annoyed, and they feel bad. They don't want to annoy him.

“saving us isn't just on you, kiddo,” he insists, leaning forwards and looking at them in a serious way. “shouldn't have been in the first place, honestly. you’ve done a lot for us and we're all grateful, but you can't keep kicking yourself for not being able to do it all. you’re a kid. let the adults take over for a bit. i know that's easier said than done, but trust me, you'll regret it of you don't live your childhood while you've got it.”

Frisk knows that Sans is speaking from experience. He raised Papyrus mostly by himself for a long time, when he was still a child himself. He's told them about it in a different timeline, or Papyrus did in others. At the same time, that sounds so abstract to them. How could any of that be important when the fate of all monsters is at stake? When the very future is at risk?

“you need to learn how to live,” Sans says suddenly, and with a sense of revelation, as if he only just noticed that himself. 

“I am living,” Frisk says, confused. They’ve become pretty good at staying alive with everything they’ve been through.

“i don't just mean surviving,” he says. 

For some reason, his voice has gotten oddly gentle, caring in a way that they normally only know from Toriel. That's the kind of caring that grown ups give to children they look after. Once more they feel bewildered. This is completely new too. Sans isn't like this. Nothing makes sense. 

“you spent so long being powerful, fighting, surviving, planning the next step, living like you're at war or in an adventure,” Sans explains. “and now that's all gone. you’re normal. but the surviving and fighting has gone on for so long that you don't know how to do anything else anymore. normal life feels weird. maybe boring. as if it's not for you. useless. you don't know what to do with yourself if it's not that.”

And he waits. 

And Frisk… they don't want to, but their vision goes all blurry and it's really hard to breathe. 

They hate crying. It always feels terrible, they feel choked up and their eyes hurt and their nose clogs up, it gives them a headache and they feel embarrassed by it. But they can’t stop this time. They’re usually so good at keeping calm, but now it bursts out of them. 

A big sob wrestles itself out of their throat. 

“shit, uh.” 

They can’t see him anymore, but that’s okay because they don’t want to. 

“sorry, i didn’t wanna make you cry.” He sounds almost panicked.

“How do you know that?” they choke out. 

Since they can’t see him, they don’t know what kind of face he’s making in the brief pause between their statement and his answer. All they know is that he’s looking at them. 

“been through it,” he finally says. “after gaster vanished it was just me and paps in the labs, and paps was only a toddler. so i had to take care of him. i didn’t remember ever knowing anyone but paps, so i didn’t trust adults. i stole and scavenged food to bring back to the lab, ‘n then when alphys moved in, i took my brother and ran away. we lived all over the underground for years, in waterfall and hotland and new home… less often in snowdin. too cold, heh. i fought for everything. probably made things harder for us than they’d have to be, honestly. we could’ve had a lot more help, but i didn’t want it. ‘n so when i finally got a job and a proper home, and we got to live like everyone else… we had no idea how. paps got used to it faster than i did.”

They’re still sobbing, wiping at their eyes frantically. A soft handkerchief is pressed against their hand, one that smells very strongly of floral soap and starch, the way it only does when Papyrus washes something instead of Toriel. They take it and don’t know whether to wipe their tears away or blow their nose, but settle on the latter. The tears go into their sweater instead. 

When they feel a hand settle gingerly on their back, they flinch. But the hand isn’t pulled away. Instead it begins rubbing their back. Insecure as if he doesn’t know how, but he tries. 

“i had a role when i was out there, you know?” he continues. “when i tried to be normal, i felt like i had nothing anymore. i had to make a new role for myself so i’d know what to do. that was the hardest part. i had to figure out what i wanted for myself, instead of just surviving and taking care of paps.”

“I, I don’t, know how to, do that,” they sob. 

It had been their life. 

Almost all of it. 

“nah. but you can figure it out. you’re clever, and you got people to help you, not like me,” Sans tells them, his skeletal hand still running over their back in slow, soothing motions. “you got a therapist, and an adoptive mom, and your other informal adopted mom tori, and asriel and chara, and the whole family, really. me included.”

For some reason, that makes them cry harder, even though they feel less sad. It’s really hard to work through what they’re feeling. All they do know is that you were right. Sans gets it. 

“you just gotta make use of it, right? guess that’s a bit rich coming from me. heh. i sure didn’t. thing is though, now that the military manhandled us all into it… i think it’d probably have been better if i had accepted help earlier,” Sans admits. “so don’t be like me in that aspect, actually.”

He says it in such a thoughtful and casual way that they can’t help but laugh through their sobs, even though it’s not really that fully. Sans joins in, his low chuckles almost too quiet to hear over their own heaving giggle.

“Thank you,” they finally press out after they’ve both calmed down a bit, when their sobbing slowly transforms into sniffing and they don’t find it quite so hard to see through their tears anymore. Sans’ hand is still on their back, less insecure now. They find it comforting. 

“anytime, kiddo.” 

He means it, they can tell. That makes them feel better. They’re still crying a little and they know that they have a lot to deal with. But they feel a little lighter now that they’ve said some things out loud, now that some stuff is out in the open. They feel that maybe now they can repeat some things more easily in front of their therapist, and maybe then they’ll start to feel better even more. 

Most of all though, they feel glad that the timeline they got stuck in is one where they and Sans get to be real friends again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: existentialism, ptsd, trauma, coping, self-worth issues, steps towards recovery


	25. There's a Firefly loose tonight, burning this Place down [Sans]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/31632873)!
> 
> A new main chapter is also out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/31804752)!

Sans doesn’t know what he’s enjoying more; your soft warm body underneath him, the way you’re sucking on his vertebrae with mounting enthusiasm, or the way the ribbons of your overknee socks tickle his femurs where your and his legs meet. 

Not to mention the sensation of his own socks against his bones. 

A part of him still can’t believe he went through with that. 

It's more daring than almost anything else he's done for you so far, except having sex with you without his soul that first time. The memory makes him shudder, and he shudders even harder when your tongue licks against the gap between his vertebrae, making him hiss with pleasure. 

He's just about ready to lose himself in the feeling when something forces him back, mentally and physically. 

You look surprised when he pulls back from you, stares down at you with intense focus. 

Can you see the intent on his skull? 

He knows you've learnt to read him well in the time you've been together, a fact that pleases him whenever he thinks about it. His skull is expressive, but there's still a lack of flesh and skin and muscle to hinder the interpretation of his mimics, a difference in the eyes that conveys his feelings in a different way than yours do. He hopes you know him well enough to see what he wants. If not he'll have to show you. Tell you. Prove it to you. 

You already took control of the situation the first time. 

Not that he minds. 

But now, it's _his_ turn. 

You've been through so much, you've had so much to deal with. The aftermath of the void, the trauma, the changes in your body and the hatred of humans who accused you of being at fault for your own fabricated fate. The stress of your work and now the revelation of your potential new role in the monarchy when all you wanted was to celebrate a relaxing Gyftmas. 

He wants you to have that, now, with him. 

A chance to lie back and relax, to not have to think or worry about anything. Not having to take control or make decisions. Even after you took the opportunity and connected with your own soul to calm down, he wants this for you.

This was his original plan, for which the socks were only the start: to spoil you, please you, pleasure you. Make sure that you feel good. To take the pressure off and drown you in his love. To make you feel protected and cared for and wrapped up in nothing but him. 

Judging by your expression, you can tell that something’s up, even if you don't quite seem to know what yet. 

That's fine.

He'll show you.

It'll be his _pleasure_. 

“my turn,” he whispers against your lips, making sure that his voice is nothing but a low rumble, knowing how much you like it when he sounds like that. 

He can feel your breath hitch against his teeth. 

Good. 

Leaning forwards, he nuzzles you, taking his sweet time to drag his nasal bone over your quivering flesh while grinding his pelvis against your lower body. Both your and his genitals have vanished in the aftermath of your orgasms, but he's reasonably sure he can make them come back. 

“Sans,” you murmur, aimlessly, no intent behind the statement but the desire to speak his name. 

He loves it so much when you do that, when you can't seem to control yourself, as if saying his name out loud is a special treat for you to indulge in. His name has never sounded sweeter than it does in these moments. 

A pleased hum makes its way out of his mouth, against your lips, and he follows it with his tongue, licking against the plumpness of your mouth until your lips part and you let him in. 

As for himself, he's still not too sure what to think about this act. It's physically pleasurable, but also pretty slimy and wet. But also hot, how he and you can breathe into each other's mouths. But gross, for the feeling of spit collecting as your tongues move against each other. But hot again, for the sensation of your teeth under his tongue. Pleasure and disinclination at war.

In the end it doesn't matter. 

You sigh against him, drawn out and breathlessly aroused, and that's more than enough to tip the scales. You love this, and that helps him past any leftover preconceptions he might have against this act. Knowing he can make you feel this way is a turn on for him all by itself. 

So he takes his time, explores the whole of your mouth at a languid pace while you writhe underneath him, bit by bit and breath by breath until both you and him need to draw back to inhale. Yours sounds like a moan and he dives right back in to catch it, to nibble at your lower lip. 

Your skin is prickling up under his phalanges where he trails them over you, even though you feel heated. It’s funny to him how your body still does that even though so much else has changed, it looks so silly. Like a plucked goose. Human bodies are so strange, but he loves yours. He maps out all the changes, learns your new body together with you. He misses your heartbeat dearly. The exhilarating feeling of magic on your skin, the sensation telling him that you and him are now of the same make, can’t quite make up for its loss. But it’s still a good feeling and he still tries to focus on it, to memorise it as your new normal and another thing to love about you. 

Other things have stayed the same, the softness of your breasts when he squeezes them, the places where your bones can be felt under your skin and flesh, the shape and sound of you, the trust and love that exist in the space between you and him, expressed in each gesture as he moves together with you. 

“Sans, please…” 

You’re grinding up, whimpering against his skull, seeking more pressure and stimulation than he’s currently granting you. 

“shh, you don't gotta beg. i’ll give you everything you want. promise.” 

That seems to have been just the right thing to say, as he suspected it would, judging by the rush of magic through your body, culminating between your legs as your new genitals form again. He's pleased at its reappearance, at the strong reaction he can induce in you. It was amazing to see it up close, to have his view filled with nothing but such an intimate part of you, while you took care of such an intimate part of him. 

Had you known that he once fantasised about your mouth on his cock?

That he had thought of this while he first explored his own anatomy?

He doesn't know, but he wants to make it up to you regardless. Make sure that you feel just as fulfilled and taken care of and loved. He has paid enough attention, during intimate moments and outside of them, to have a good idea of what you like. 

You love his low voice, and how he nuzzles you. You like seeing him embarrassed because you think it's cute, but you also like when he overcomes it and takes over in a more dominant fashion. You like sharing yourself with him physically and emotionally, the latter part always important to you. It's never just about the physical act with you. And since you vanished and returned from the void, you love to feel connected and protected, to know that you are safe and not alone. You love to be held. 

Knowing this, he's careful to keep an arm around you while he reaches down with his other hand to caress the sensitive conjured flesh between your legs. You're already wet, the sticky, hot moisture causing his skull to heat up. He had tasted that moisture not too long ago and against all of his expectations, he ended up really liking it. 

Your magic tastes good. 

Warm and sweet. 

You cling to him, your entire body shaking while he draws his phalanges over your clit and your opening. You're going to want more soon, he can see that. Focusing on his own magic, it takes no effort at all for him to form his own cock again. 

He groans at the feeling when it presses against the concentrated magic of your cunt. Summoned genitals have a magical feeling that's so much stronger than a regular monster body - the magnetic pressure and sense of recognition and belonging is far more intense. It creates a stimulation that feels almost overwhelming on his sensitive organ. 

Tentatively, he begins to move, gratifying your needy desire for more stimulation and, incidentally, also his own. 

He doesn't tease you for long before he begins to ease himself into you, suppressing a whine at the sensation of even pressure surrounding his cock. He can only hope that the pressure his own magic emits feels just as gratifying, though judging by the sounds you're making that seems to be the case. 

You're a lot less shameless about shouting your pleasure out loud than he is. 

Stars, you're so sexy like this. 

Your head thrown back, mouth half open, lips glistening wet and reddened from his eager kisses. The flush on your skin, almost hiding the subtle shimmer of your bones underneath. The way your eyes are scrunched shut, brows drawn together. Your expression half a smile and half lustful desperation. 

He whimpers as his bones begin to prickle, a lightheaded dizziness working it's way from his skull through his bones. He has no idea how long he'll be able to hold up for you when you're so sexy, he feels as though he's already so close to coming. Something has to be done - before he's done before you.

Bringing one of his hands up, he places it on you sternum, only taking a very brief detour over your breast. 

“may i?”

His voice sounds just as breathless as yours, but less wrecked and more in control. The knowledge that he brought you so far into lustful desperation fills him with even more satisfaction and desire. 

“Yes, please, Sans - “

“hey, told ya you don't have to beg,” he reminds you as he pulls out your soul. 

You arch up into him when his fingers graze the delicate, soft surface. The hint of emotions you're feeling washes over his sense, making it even harder for him to control himself. 

It's incredible how much you want him, it makes him feel so good… 

No. 

This is about you, not him. 

He lowers his head, breathing over your sensitive soul and giving you a moment to get used to the idea of what he has in mind. When you did this to him it had left him nearly out of his mind with pleasure and he's fairly sure that this is just the right thing to help you along. 

Already, you're squirming with your eyes transfixed on the miniscule distance between his mouth and your soul. 

You don't say it out, apparently remembering that he told you there was no need to beg, but it's overwhelmingly clear from your expression that you want this. 

Closing the distance, he brings his teeth and tongue into contact with your soul, grazing or it ever so carefully before licking a wide stripe over the rounded shape of it. 

A high, hoarse scream wrestles itself out of your throat, your body shivering as your emotions crest and burst into climax. You're contracting around him and he feels delighted when his own orgasm is still delayed for just a moment, when he keeps moving and gets to feel and watch the effects of it on you, how your muscles work and stiffen, how your face scrunches up, how your voice sounds laboured and overwhelmed, emotions pouring out of you sharing your lust and your bliss and your love for him, every piece of you bursting into a crescendo that _he_ orchestrated.

The fact that he can give you such pleasure is enough to have him follow in your wake, his thoughts blanking out for a second as his magic bursts with his own lust. 

He lies on top of you in the aftermath completely spent. Breathing heavily while the exhaustion settles deep into his bones. 

His constitution isn't among the best on a good day, and he just exerted himself twice in a row both physically and magically. That would be enough to make anyone tired, not just him. Still, he makes an effort to keep trailing circles onto your skin, because he wants you to feel cherished from start to finish. 

“i love you,” he mumbles, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. 

“I love you too,” you whisper back, sounding just as tired as he does. There’s this undertone in your voice though, something deep and fulfilled. 

Love. 

You sound as if you’re drunk on it. 

Glad to know that his message came across properly, he allows his sockets to slide shut, his face now buried in the crook of your neck and your hair. 

He falls asleep to the sensation of your lips kissing the side of his skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: sex, soul sex, monster perspectives on french kissing and human bodily functions, soul licking, gentle sex,


	26. Ready, aim, fire, run [Frisk]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comes with a main chapter [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244671/chapters/33455727), I strongly recommend reading that first.

The side of the mountain is dark. 

Not completely, there's fires in Ebott that light up the night enough that Frisk can see okay. But it's still mostly dark. 

They inch towards Asriel and Chara just in case. Neither of them likes darkness much. 

Darkness means death. 

Darkness means having their soul shattered as they failed to survive. 

Darkness means lying rotting in the soil, waiting for a determined soul to fall upon their grave. 

Darkness means a reset, a timeline erased. 

Their experiences varied here and there, Asriel especially had different experiences compared to Frisk and Chara, but the underlying themes were the same. They all feel wary of the dark, so they try to stay together in these situations. 

“I'll miss that house,” Asriel says quietly, watching their home burn. 

So much of Ebott is burning. 

“Me too,” Chara agrees. 

Frisk nods, although they don't dare to speak. They had spoken to Sans about how they didn't know what to do with themselves now that the resets were over. How they felt useless when they weren't saving everyone. 

Now they feel worse. 

Ebott is burning and they can't do a thing. 

What if someone dies?

They're scared. 

“IT WAS A VERY NICE HOUSE,” Papyrus agrees. “BUT THE NICEST THING ABOUT IT WERE ALL THE MEMORIES WE MADE THERE TOGETHER AND WE CAN MAKE MORE MEMORIES IN A NEW HOUSE!” 

Frisk turns and hugs Papyrus. He's always so optimistic and kind. Always trying his best. They're glad he's here with them. They wish everyone else was here too, Toriel and Asgore, Sans and Gaster, Undyne and Alphys, Dolores and you. 

You're going to be here soon at least, they reassure themselves. You'll only fetch your mom and then at least you'll be here and they'll have one less person to be scared about…

They're suddenly pushed behind Papyrus. 

“What's wrong?” they ask, but they see it as soon as the words are out of their mouth. The quick flash of a gun. 

The shot is loud in the silence of the clearing. 

They duck out of sheer habit, thanks to so many timelines spent evading magical bullets, but they shouldn't even have bothered. A sturdy construct of bone has sprung up from the ground, blocking the bullet and racing towards the shooter. 

“THERE ARE CHILDREN WITH ME,” Papyrus says clearly, not letting his bone attack subside. Frisk can't see if they hit. “DON'T ATTACK US!”

The only reply are more shots, blocked by a flurry of bones. It's clear that these people don't care about hurting children. 

“PLEASE STOP!”

Frisk sobs. This reminds them so much of when they fought Papyrus. When he offered them kindness and mercy and told them he believed in them only for them to cut him down. Out of everything they've done it's the thing they feel most guilty for, because Papyrus had always been the one who ultimately chose to let them live, who never once killed them. They don't want to see or hear this. 

Chara is crouched next to Frisk, pulling them up where they are behind Papyrus. Papyrus has switched over to shooting bones directly at their attackers now that it's clear that they won't be deterred by the fact that children are present. Frisk can hear grunts from the attackers. Papyrus may ask for peaceful solutions, but he has no qualms about attacking and when he hits he hits hard. Asriel is standing, peeking up behind Papyrus’ legs and raising a paw. He doesn't get to use his lasers though. 

A bullet makes it past the complex array of bone attacks Papyrus has employed. 

Everything is confusing for a second. 

Frisk can't see and they hear shouting and then they're somewhere different. 

Chara is panting. 

“Did you shortcut?” Frisk asks quietly, looking at the trees around them. Chara huffs and nods. 

Papyrus picks them all up and begins to run. Frisk is squished against the fuzzy bodied of Asriel and Chara, their fur tickling Frisk's skin. They can look over Papyrus’ shoulder from where he's holding them and see soldiers following them. 

Why are the soldiers attacking them?

Frisk doesn't understand. The soldiers were supposed to protect them, but now it seems they're bad…

It would explain a lot, if the soldiers are bad.  
It would explain why everything always went wrong in all timelines, why the bad people always seemed to know where and how to hit them. Why they had never managed to make a timeline last for this long before even when they could reset. It was all destroyed from the inside out all along. All of Frisk's efforts, made moot by betrayal. 

The soldiers keep shooting at them, but Papyrus is running in a zigzag pattern. Together with the dense trees, that makes him hard to hit. The trees are… familiar. 

“Left,” Frisk whispers against Papyrus skull, thinking fast. 

Papyrus has a lot of energy, but they can't keep this up forever. One hit gone wrong might kill him, or them or Asriel or Chara. Or hit Papyrus’ legs so he can't run anymore and then they're all dead anyway. 

Papyrus follows their instruction without questioning them, trusting them immediately.

“Oh,” Asriel whispers. 

“I'm ready,” Chara mumbles. 

Good. 

Frisk loves them for catching on immediately, loves knowing that they can still rely on each other like this even now that they're separated. 

“Straight,” Frisk instructs Papyrus. “Keep running. No matter what.”

Papyrus redoubles his efforts, going faster now that he has to keep to a straight line. Thanks to his towering height, he's able to put a good bit of distance between them and their attackers. His long legs cover so much ground so fast. 

But will it be enough?

Bullets are flying around them, coming closer now that he isn't trying to evade anymore. Just a bit more and they'll be good. 

Just a bit.

Just a tiny bit more…

The bullet that hits them is one they didn't see at all, flying below their line of sight straight through the gap between Papyrus’ torso and arm where Frisk's side is open and vulnerable. The pain that shoots through their hip and waist is not the worst thing they've ever experienced, but they can tell it's bad. 

They wince without a sound. 

It reminds them of the many times when Asgore gutted them, blood gushing forth and part of their pelvic bone shattering. They can feel splinters of bone digging into their flesh. Blood runs down their hip and leg, feeling hot against their shivering skin.

Not good. 

Not good, they only needed a moment more, just a bit. 

They'll have to rethink. 

It'll be worth it. 

“Frisk - “ Chara tries to warn them, to stop them, but it's too late. 

Frisk activates what magic they have left in their soul, and feeds their determination into it. 

They have so much of that and yet it hurts. 

The magic burning through the determination in their soul hurts, it's agony, worse than the bullet wound in their side, worse than any death they've died, worse than burning a universe in a reset. 

It's a last resort but one that works. 

Frisk's body slips backwards, out of Papyrus’ arms and partially _through_ him as their own time rewinds to leave them in the spot they were moments before, body as it was then. 

The bullet and some of their blood are left behind, they can hear it fall to the ground just as they fall too. 

They hit the earth with the smallest grunt and are up before they even register the pain. The pain of falling out of the air from Papyrus’ height is so insignificant in comparison to the agony in their soul and the leftover ghost of pain in their waist and hip. And they've fallen so often. Over and over in so many timelines. They feel tired and they want to rest but they can't, so they force themselves to go on. 

“FRISK!” they hear Papyrus shout. 

“Keep running!” they call back, already up again to run behind him. He's _close_ , he can't stop for them, he has to make it even if they don't.

They want to make it though. 

They don't want to die. 

They run faster than they ever have before, in spite of how tired they are and how much everything hurts. They can hear Papyrus and Chara and Asriel in front of them, shouting something at them that they don't really understand because they're too distracted. They can hear the soldiers behind them too, catching up rapidly. 

They have to be faster, faster, before they're shot again and their rewinding is useless. There are already bullets impacting the trees too close to their head. They want to live. They want to see everyone again and be happy, even if it's hard, even if after this happiness might be fragile and far away, even if they don't know how to be happy in a world where they can't reset. 

They want to be happy, they want to live. 

Their heart hammers blood through their body as they run, so loud that they almost have trouble hearing the bullets being shot. 

Not again, they think, not again, please, it hurts, no again… 

They think of you. 

And a little bit of Toriel and of Sans and of the others but most of all they think of you. 

You already held them once while explosions and shots went off around them and they had watched you walk into death for their sake over and over again before something finally clicked and one load let you survive. They had felt safe in your arms even when they knew you would die over and over again. 

They selfishly wish you were here to hold and protect them. 

But you're not. 

Instead they have to survive by themselves to make sure you can hold them again. 

They hear a loud scream in front of them and know that it's a matter of seconds now, and maybe it's good they fell and were left behind because maybe the soldiers would have stopped if they hadn't. And they can't stop. Nobody can stop, they have to keep running and the soldiers have to keep running and they hope Chara and Asriel really _get it_ , enough that they helped Papyrus out and then Frisk is _there_. 

They twist as they jump, turning back just enough to look over their shoulder. 

They see. 

The angry expressions, so close, they think that they were fractions away from being shot again, and the transformation of angry into horror. 

Frisk falls into a hole they've fallen into thousands of times before with a smile, seeing all the ones who want to hurt them stumble and fall with them. The soldiers scream. Frisk doesn't. 

They are caught by a pair of gentle, fuzzy hands, the body of their sibling and former headmate pressing close before darkness flickers in front of their eyes and they emerge elsewhere. 

It's not far away, only the entrance to the ruins. Chara isn't that good with their shortcuts yet. This is probably as far as they can go. 

But it worked. 

Chara has managed to shortcut Asriel and Papyrus away before they all hit the ground after falling into the hole, and then managed to take another shortcut to catch Frisk right out of the air to bring them here too. They look really tired now, but Frisk doesn’t think they need to run anymore. 

They know from experience that it’s a deep fall, down that hole. 

Deep enough to ensure nobody will follow them. 

Frisk isn’t sure how they feel about that. They’re not happy about it, but they can’t really bring themselves to feel very bad about it either. 

“ARE YOU OKAY?” Papyrus asks them immediately, kneeling down in front of them while he look them over, noticing the bloodied hole in their sweater even though the flesh underneath is whole and unharmed. 

“I'm okay,” they tell him. “I was hit, but it went away when I rewound time. The soldiers fell into the hole after me.”

Papyrus hugs them wordlessly. Frisk thinks he's maybe a bit sad that the soldiers were bad and that they had to fall, but still mostly glad and relieved that Frisk isn't hurt and that they all made it out okay. They squeeze him back. Papyrus then insists on checking Chara and Asriel too just in case. Chara is tired from using their magic, but otherwise they're good. 

“What should we do now?” Asriel asks, rubbing a paw over Chara’s back, who had to sit down.

“FIRST OF ALL WE SHOULD REST,” Papyrus tells them, still looking a bit worried at Chara’s exhaustion. “AND THEN WE’LL GO CHECK THE HOLE. OR AT LEAST I WILL.”

“Wait, what?” Chara huffs out. 

“WE SHOULD SEE IF SOMEONE SURVIVED, AND MAKE SURE THEY KEEP SURVIVING,” Papyrus states. “IT WOULD BE BAD TO LET THEM DIE, EVEN IF THEY HAVE BEEN A LITTLE… MURDERY TOWARDS US JUST NOW.”

“They shot Frisk!” Chara protests. “They had to rewind their own time to survive!”

“I’m ok,” Frisk repeats quietly, because it’s true, because their soul already hurts a lot less even though they had to sit down next to Chara now that they aren’t being chased anymore. 

“THEY MIGHT HAVE IMPORTANT INFORMATION ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED,” Papyrus points out. 

That’s enough to make Chara shut up. They look thoughtful as they ponder the implications. Frisk hopes Papyrus is right. It would be good to find out what exactly is happening here. Maybe it would help prevent something like this in the future. And that could only be good, right? 

Warmth spreads through them all of a sudden, and when they look up they find Papyrus kneeling in front of them and Chara with a hand on each of their heads, healing magic pouring out of him. 

“YOU LOOKED LIKE YOU NEEDED IT,” he explains. 

Frisk knows that their and Chara’s exhaustion is soul-deep, caused by a depletion of determination and magic respectively, and thus it’s something that healing magic won’t fix. But it still feels nice and it at least takes some of the ache away. 

“Thank you,” they mumble. 

“YOU’RE WELCOME!”

Papyrus looks like he wants to say more, but he’s interrupted before he gets the chance. 

Darkness overtakes them. 

Frisk wonders if Chara’s taking a shortcut, and wonders why, but then they feel it. They feel you, your horror and worry and grief, your anger and so many other painful and loving emotions coupled to a deep desire to understand. 

They have enough time to feel relieved that you’re alive. 

Then you and every sentient soul on the planet merge, and they don’t worry about anything anymore while the boundaries of individuality cease to be for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: violence against children, children being shot, blood, mild gore,


	27. Credits - Songlist

1 Thursday - As He Climbed the Dark Mountain (Frisk)  
2 The Clash - Lost in the Supermarket (Dolores)  
3 Gorillaz - Some kind of Nature (Sans)  
4 The Magic Mumble Jumble - Mr Scientist (Gaster)  
5 They Might Be Giants - Science is Real (Sans)  
6 Placebo - Trigger Happy Hands (Mettaton)  
7 Freezepop - Harebrained Scheme (Alphys)  
8 Sting - Be Still My Beating Heart (Sans)  
9 Sufjan Stevens - A Good Man Is Hard To Find (Asgore)  
10 Queens Of The Stone Age - The Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret (Sans)  
11 Radical Face - Welcome Home (Everyone)  
12 God-des & She - Lick It (Muffet)  
13 Rupert Pope & Giles Palmer - Chasing Stars (Sans)  
14 The Black Crowes - We who see the Deep (Dolores)  
15 Amanda Seyfried - Little House (Toriel)  
16 Aurora - Running with the Wolves (Chara)  
17 Bastille - An Act of Kindness (Asriel)  
18 The Cure - Let’s go to Bed (Sans)  
19 Queen - Soul Brother (Papyrus)  
20 Shinedown - Diamond Eyes (Undyne)  
21 Blackchords - Into the Unknown (Gaster)  
22 M83 - Couleurs (Gaster)  
23 Fall out Boy - It’s not a Side Effect of the Cocaine, I am thinking it must be Love (Sans)  
24 Eden - falling in reverse (Frisk)   
25 Ed Sheeran - Firefly (Sans)  
26 Imagine Dragons - Ready, aim, fire (Frisk) 


End file.
